


On The Lap Of The Waves

by OnlyOneWoman



Series: Down Foreverdark Woods Trail [3]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Anxiety, Aphobia, Asexual Character, Asexual Relationship, Asexuality Spectrum, Behemoth, Bigotry & Prejudice, Billy Bones and John Silver friendship, Billy and Ned are asexual and happily married, Birthday Fluff, Body Image, Canon Divergence Characers, Concerts, Declarations Of Love, Domestic, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Father-Son Relationship, Fear, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gang Rape - memories, Guilt, Hate, Hate Crimes, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, In-Laws, Kissing, Love, Lowbones, M/M, Medication, Moonsorrow, Mother-Son Relationship, Nightmares, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Original Character(s), Pagan Metal, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Past eating disorder, Past foster care, Personal Assistent Anne Bonny, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Powerlessness, Psychological Trauma, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Rape Aftermath, Rape Culture, Rape Recovery, Recovery, Same-Sex Marriage, Self-Harm, Service Dogs, Shame, Suicide Attempt, Therapy, Victim Blaming, Violent Thoughts, asexual marriage, rape flashbacks, supportive husband, wacken open air
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-10-25 02:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 35
Words: 35,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10754688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnlyOneWoman/pseuds/OnlyOneWoman
Summary: This is part three of the freestanding follow-up to the modern AU "Aces Of Spades And Hearts" series, that takes place about three years after Billy's and Ned's wedding in "At Ends Of Nights" (part 7 of "Aces...").Ned is not the villain here, but a victim of gang rape and is on the very shaky road to recovery and his husband Billy finally knows that his ex boyfriend Woodes Rogers was one of the rapists."On The Lap Of The Waves" is part three and continues a couple of days after the last chapter in "Banished From Sanctuary", where Ned's PTSD made him come to an extreme conclusion. The title is from Moonsorrow's "Sankaritarina".I will use both 1st and 3rd person pov with both Billy and Ned. Each chapter will be named with the pov. I also want to point out that this is VERY canon divergent when it comes to the characters, especially Ned Low. Wipe out the image of him as a cruel sadist, because this is not the case in the AU at all.If you're a fan of History Channel's "Vikings" and remember Tadhg Murphy's role Arne, or have seen this awesome actor in another role than Ned Low, "my" Ned will be far closer to those than the Ned Low character. And Billy is definately not a "Black Sails season 4 Billy".





	1. Billy (1st person)

”T’is not that I wanted to. T’was just the best option…”  
”The best option? What the hell’s wrong with you?!”  
  
I want to hit him and I’m ashamed for my thoughts but I’ve been crying for two days now and this is the second time I almost became a widower. Had Mary Read not found him… I take a deep breath, trying to calm down because I know, I know, I fucking _know_ this isn’t helping, but I’m so angry. So fucking angry, disappointed and sad. I stare at the ghostlike face on the pillow.  
  
”You wanted to leave me.”  
”Billy…”  
”To leave me alone… How do you… _Alone_ , Ned.”  
  
I break, for the umpteenth time. Unflattering sobs I shouldn’t disturbe him with, but he was the one taking an overdoze of sleeping pills and washed them down with a forgotten bottle of scotch from the pantry. Was it not for the dog in the bed he said he didn’t need, who woke me up only minutes after he left the house…    
  
”Billy… Please, don’t cry like that.”  
”Oh, I’ll cry, hon. I’ll cry just as much as I fucking want to, you… selfish bastard!”  
  
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I shouldn’t say that. I know I shouldn’t. But this is how I feel now. I love the sick, wounded, ashamed man with tunnel vision who nearly managed to let the pain and shame win. I love him so much and for him to think he could leave me alone, to fucking die from me, is nothing but fucking selfish. I wipe my face angrily.  
  
”You’re letting them destroy you. They’re winning over you, over _us_ , Ned. Have they not taken enough already?”  
  
He doesn’t answer that and I try to remember what the doc said. What I knew, what I read about but not been able to apply on Ned. That suicidal thoughts are common with ptsd. That some people who’ve decided to commit suicide, appear calmer than usual their last days. Because the decision makes them calm, makes them feel in control, finally. And that they somehow think they’re doing their loved ones a favour. Yes, I’m angry and I’m disappointed but more than that I’m just fucking destroyed.  
  
”You wanted me to sit and stare at a corpse? To look at my husband’s dead body and… start planning for your funeral? To…”  
”I don’t… Just don’t know how to do this anymore… Living like before… I… I don’t know how I thought, Billy, I just…”  
”Just answer me one thing. Do you wish me to get out of your life?”  
”What?”  
”Just answer the question, Ned. You want a divorce?”  
”No!”  
”You still love me then?”  
”Of course I love ye.”  
”Then why? _Why_ , Ned?”  
  
Why the fuck am I asking this? He’s had his stomach pumped, bandages around his arms from scratching and biting. They’ve scanned his brain and found a lot of proof of the damage the PTSD is causing, such as changes possibly causing difficulties to separate past from the now. I know this decision he made wasn’t one he’d made unless his sense of reality wasn’t so fucked up. It’s on fucking paper now. My husband is trapped in that moment and can’t seem to get out.  
  
Mary Read is laying in the bed with him. Service dogs apparently can be permitted here in some cases and my husband has showed signs of increased calm in sleep ever since she was brought here. She’s having her paws in a protecting grip around him, resting her head on his left thigh. If I keep raising my voice, she’ll soon think I’m about to attack her daddy.  
  
”I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Billy…”  
  
Ned’s voice is so small. It’s not indifferent, or dismissive. It’s wretched. Absolutely wretched in a way I’ve not heard even during his worst nightmares. It’s the voice of someone who’s disgusted by himself, who’s hating himself for what he’s convinced is weakness. Incapability of living. I lift his upper body to get my arms around him. I’m holding half of him, Mary Read the other half.  
  
”Hal and Elan are coming.”  
”What?”  
”Not gonna appologies for it, Ned. There’s only so much I can take of this. We need help, both of us…”  
  
I don’t know if it’s a sign of acceptance, defeat or just indifference. My husband’s body has been tense despite muscle relaxants and the precense of Mary Read, but the sigh leaving him now seems to say _finally_. Yes, I might be lying to myself, but his hands are not clutching, his face isn’t tense and he’s not turning away. He doesn’t want to die, he just doesn’t know how to live.


	2. Ned (1st person)

I’m dreaming. I know I am, but it feels so real. I’m in Germany, Wacken Open Air 2011 and the sky is grey. It’s the fourth and last day of the festival and me, Ben and Idelle are hungover, exhausted and dirty. We reek from sweat and tent, beer and barbecue and Idelle has a nice love bite on her neck from a die hard Sodom and Judas Priest fan from Lebanon. I woke up in our tent, seeing the bure laying with her face buried between Idelle’s tits, snoring. Cutest fucking sight.  
  
It’s around lunchtime and while dragging our sore bodies out from our miserable tent, Ben groused about the fact that he has more beer than blood in his system, that my artificial eye probably works better than his own eyes right now and that it’s blasphemy to schedule Moonsorrow this early. He’s right, but the show is still amazing.  
  
”Wacken! Make some fucking noise!”  
  
Ville Sorvali, bloodpainted and winter pale, urges us to sing and as always I’m surprised at how much of the Finnish lyrics I actually can pronounce. _Sankaritarina_ , Finnish for _the warrior’s tale_ , from 2001 and Moonsorrow’s second album _Voimasta ja Kunniasta_ , is one of my favourite songs ever. Slow and dark, beautifully melancholic in a way that makes me feel raw and primal. My body practically sings, sore and high on adrenalin and little bit of weed. I’ve not felt uncomfortable in my own skin even once during the festival.  
  
My hair is unusually short, due to a hasty and stupid bet where I challenged Idelle to ask her crush out. After three weeks of flirting from both sides not leading anywhere and Idelle just being a nervous pain in the ass, I told her I would let her see me in short hair – something she’d wanted since forever – if she asked the girl out. She did, I got a floppy haircut that makes me look like a boyband member and Idelle got herself laid but declared the lay wasn’t girlfriend material. The Lebanese bure she’s banging at the festival isn’t either, but according to Idelle she’s got amazing tongue skills. I don’t doubt it, Idelle was pretty loud last night.  
  
I’m wearing black jeans with a bullet belt, an old Gehenna t-shirt and muddy boots, one of which is missing half a shoelace. My hair is greasier than the festival donuts, Ben’s beard reminds of an untamed shrubbery and Idelle has mud on her tits. In fact, all three of us look like we’re ready for the dumpster.    
  
The band is excited, the sound deadly and despite being day four and one of the earliest acts where the audience tend to be more calm – and on the last day also exhausted – it’s a great show and I’m completely swept away. The depth, the darkness as Sorvali growls the part beginning with _jo luku viimeinen saa, surmansa kohdannut lepää sijallaan_ , on English _and so the last chapter is at hand, who faced his death now rests on his place,_ sends my body and mind into ecstacy and I loose all sense of contact with my physical surroundings, just reeling in the music that bites through my skin.  
  
_Kuolemaan me jok'ikinen kuljemme; jumalat ovat elävät valinneet_. Towards death we all are lead; the gods have chosen those to live _. Veljemme syliin aaltojen laskemme; jää hyvästi, sinut aina muistamme._ Our brother we lay on the lap of the waves; fare ye well, you stay in our hearts.  
  
I don’t care that it’s early, that I’m a wreck from three days with greasy food, round the clock beer drinking, headbanging and sleeping in a crowded, damp tent. I don’t care that Moonsorrow is music that suits better with black skies than grey noon or that the drunk buck standing right in front me, constantly steps on my feet as he totters in the slippery mud.  
  
I feel an arm around my shoulders and look to the left where a big, dark guy with cornrows reaching his ass and a toothy smile in the bushy beard is headbanging like he was paid for it. He’s lost in the music, just like me, and I swirl my arm around his back as we sing along in our very poor Finnish. Sometimes it just happens on a show with one of your favourite bands. You’re standing next to someone who’s a die hard fan too, you just need to exchange a look and suddenly you’re connected. For a chorus, a song or a whole show you’re not strangers anymore in a weird, unspoken way.  
  
The man holding me, the man I’m holding, is what’s keeping my skin in place. I love his strenght, his size and the completely non-sexual intimacy I share with him in this quagmire that’s a just as given part of festivals as moshpits and lukewarm beer. For seven minutes I’m in love with this stranger and he’s the most beautiful creature on Earth. When the concert is over, we’ve long since lost each other in the crowd – or would’ve if we’d looked for each other – and I lie to Ben and Idelle, saying I need to take a piss and that we’ll meet at the Jägermeister tent.  
  
I manage to get away and when I’m out of sight from them, I start crying because I’m twentyeight years old and had no idea I needed that stranger’s arm around me so badly. I eventually pull myself together and meet up with Ben and Idelle for some food, telling myself I’m just exhausted and therefor more sensitive. I forget about it as we grab in on our balanced festival lunch of falafel, energy drinks and yet more beer and for the rest of the festival, I feel just normal – or as normal as you feel after four days at Wacken.  
  
I know I’m dreaming, because I feel safe, strong and free. And I’m not. Not anymore. 


	3. Billy (3rd person)

It was a good idea to ask them not to come the same day because Billy’s never been comfortable will crying in front of others – even if it’s happened a lot lately – and bawling while Hal puts the kettle on is after all not as awful as breaking down in Elan’s presence. Something Billy’s not done yet, but fears he will.  
  
”Where do you keep the cups?”  
”Left cupboard.”  
  
Hal brings cups and looks through the fridge for milk, then remembering there’s only soymilk in there. The fridge door is filled with papers and Hal looks at them.  
  
”Jesus… That’s a lot of… things.”  
  
Billy gives a teary laughter. Eating plan, PCA schedule, dog training schedule, contact list for people involved with Ned’s care plan and Billy’s work schedule along with contact information to his boss, in case Billy shouldn’t hear his phone. Yes, there’s a lot of things on their fridge.  
  
Hal looks worried. Billy hates when he does that, hates to feel he’s the one causing other people worry.  
  
”They let him have Mary Read with him. At the hospital.”  
”I was just about to ask where she is. Thought she was hiding from visitors. Didn’t know they allow dog at hospitals.”  
”Exceptions can be made with service dogs in some cases.”  
”Bet it’s a good idea to have her there. Poor lad…”  
  
His dad’s endearments have always been a bit blunt and short, but that’s just his way and Billy wouldn’t want to change that. The last thing he needs now, is someone who’s adding worry by being upset. Hal fills their cups and sits down on the other side of the table.  
  
”How bad did he…?”  
”Bad. If Maread hadn’t… Sorry, I’m just bawling all the time.”  
  
He wipes his eyes and Hal sighs.  
  
”He’s your husband. Why wouldn’t you?”  
”Because it doesn’t fucking help!”  
”Doesn’t hurt either. I spoke to Elan this morning.”  
”You called her?”  
  
Hal snorts.  
  
”Of course I called her! Jesus… This secrecy you two are doing. Is it true Ned lost thirteen pounds from not being able to eat properly?”  
”I wish. Now it’s twentyseven.”  
”Twentyseven pounds?!”  
”Yep. Elan will kill me for not telling earlier and I wont blame her. And then she’ll kill Fiona too.”  
”She knew?”  
”Some of it, but Ned was in hospital when she came to visit and they only met briefly. He made her promise not to tell Elan so she only told about the pneumonia but not… the other. And Fiona doesn’t know the whole story either.”  
”Hey, kiddo, we don’t _have_ to know everything. It’s not for you to decide what Ned wants us to know.”  
”If he’d had it his way, _I_ wouldn’t know.”  
  
Billy knows why. He understands it. Understands why Ned would want to keep the truth hidden and take it to his grave, but at the same time he doesn’t.  For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part.  
  
For better, for worse. Billy’s ex and two of that bastard’s friends, drugged and raped Ned, handled him so brutally he was bruised and bled, despite already being in a helpless state. They turned Billy’s sweet, kindhearted, smart and ridiculous Dubliner, his beloved one-eyed heart into a wrecked ghost of fear and shame and Billy couldn’t defend him.


	4. Ned (3rd person)

”Edward… _a leanbh, a thaisce…_ It’s yer maw…”  
  
The first he sees is the hair. Long and straight, the brown colour shifting to grey. Elan Low was very young when she married and became a mother and for as long as Ned has known her, she’s felt and lively, incredibly strong and young. Elan was never one of the girls that stopped playing once they became teens. When Phelan told Ned and his sister to grow the fuck up, Elan rolled her eyes behind his back and read another fairytale. Only dead people stop playing, she used to say and Rose, who was six and youngest, started crying because she didn’t want da to die.  
  
”My sweet lad… How did ye end up here?”  
  
So calm when she leans down to kiss him. Ned is too tired to speak, too defeated to protest. She shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t see him in this pathetic state, she’ll just get scared. In his fucked up state of mind, Ned’s picture of his mother has been distorted, as so many other things. Why would she want to kiss him the way he looks now? The way he _is_ now. Weak and pathetic. Someone who’s let them all down.  
  
Maw strokes his hair, takes his hand in hers. It’s warm and firm, a little callous. It doesn’t shiver. Ned does and Mary Read reaches her paw out on his leg.  
  
”So sorry… Maw, I’m…”  
”Hush now, Edward… Ye don’t have to appologies for anything. I’m here now and that’s all that matters.”  
”Didn’t want ye to worry… I fucked up…”  
”I know ye didn’t want to worry me, sweetheart, but that’s kinda’ what maws do. T’is what we signed up for. I’m not angry or disappointed with ye, Edward. Yer me son and I love ye no matter what. Just rest now, lad.”  
  
She has her old blue cardigan, knitted in a braided pattern and Ned hides his face to her chest as when he was little.  
  
”Maw…”  
”Yes, me lad?”  
”Ye’ve not… yelled at Billy, right?”  
”Not yet. Wanted to see ye first.”  
”Please don’t. I… I forbid him to.”  
”Ye thought I didn’t figure that one out already? Have already threatened to put Fiona off my will.”  
”Maw, please…”  
  
She sighs.  
  
”I know, I know… But, dammit, Ned… Yer me son and it doesn’t matter if yer thirteen or thirtythree. A mother never stops worry. And I don’t even know exactly what happened to ye.”  
  
Ned swallows.  
  
”What… what did he say?”  
”That ye’d been beaten and left in the snow by… some fucking arseholes. In a goddamn _ditch_ … Me own son…”  
  
She’s about to work herself up and Ned tugs at her cardigan sleeve. At least she doesn’t know all.  
  
”Maw, please… Not now. I can’t…”  
”Sorry. Shouldn’t work meself up like this, the doctor already told me not to. And I must go in a while, sweetheart, not that I want to, but there’s pretty strict visiting rules here.”  
”I’m alright. Have Maread.”  
”Aye, there’s a lot ye don’t tell yer poor parents.”  
  
Maw smiles though and Ned nods at Mary Read.  
  
”Say hello to grandmaw, girl.”  
”Didn’t know they allow dogs here.”  
”Was lucky. Non of the staff is allergic and they can make exceptions for service dogs.”  
  
Suddenly, Ned feels how his eyelids becomes heavy.  
  
”Maw…”  
”Yes, sweetheart?”  
”Think I’m… gonna sleep now… Could ye…?”  
”What, Edward?”  
”Yer cardigan…”  
  
She doesn’t put it on, just spreads it over him and Ned falls asleep with her scent in his lungs.


	5. Billy (1st person)

”You want dinner before or after you’ve strangled me?”  
  
This is probably not a good way to greet your mother-in-law at any time, but all ways are bad now and if I was Elan Low, I’d want to strangle me. Ned’s mom, tired from her journey and most of all the hospital visit, just snorts as the cab leaves.  
  
”Gimme a hug, lad, while I think about it.”  
  
I truly love my mother-in-law, mostly because she loves Ned so much and therefor supports him and his marriage with me. But we also get along well on a personal level and that’s one more reason why keeping this hidden from her has felt so awful. Elan barely reaches me to my chest and I could easily lift and throw her over my shoulder. That is, if I want to end up dead in my sleep. Elan has never been a mother hen but when one of her kids are hurt, she’s a momma bear and you don’t want to piss her off. Right now I’m just tremendously grateful she doesn’t cry, because that would probably make me cry too and I’m so fucking tired of crying.  
  
She pats my back and raises on her toes to kiss my cheek.  
  
”He asked me not to yell at ye… And I assume this hasn’t been much easier for ye either.”  
  
I just shake my head because of fucking course I’m crying. Elan strokes my back.  
  
”That lad never asked for much so when he does, his maw has a hard time not letting him have his way. And I… I’m not Phelan, Billy. I understand fully well why ye’d not want to break a promise to Ned, but… Fucks sake, Billy, I’m his mother!”  
  
No, Elan rarely cries in front of others. She comforts and curses and I know she understands but it doesn’t make it easer for any of us. We both love him. Elan sighs.  
  
”Aren’t ye gonna invite yer old mother-in-law inside?”  
”Sorry… Of course…”  
  
I take her bag and once she’s inside, dad comes out to say hello and I can sneak away for a moment while they rebond over their hopeless sons who should know better than keeping heavy, painful shit hidden from them and when I hear the sound of tea cups, I relax because that means I can slip away for a while, letting them talk.  
  
I go to Ned’s room and shut the door. The forest green wallpapers in here, mostly covered with lots of framed metal and theatre posters, is very Ned. The desk is a mess with scripts, books, notebooks and pens and a bunch of CD:s from his massive music collection. The top record has dust on it and I guess he’s not been listening to this particular staple for weeks and I look through it. Half of the titles are in titles I can’t pronounce, even less understand.  
  
Moonsorrow – _Voimasta ja Kunniasta_. Bathory – _Under the Sign of the Black Mark_. Satyricon – _Nemesis Divina._ Waylander – _Honour Amongst Chaos._ Månegarm – _Dödsfärd_. The titles and envelopes, the posters on his walls and the t-shirts on the chair say it’s a pretty darkminded, probably depressed and generally just gloomy person living in here, which couldn’t be more wrong. The dust on the pile of records is the depressing sight in here, because the only time my husband doesn’t care for music, is when he’s really down. When nothing can soothe him.  
  
I remember when we’d just started to look at houses together and I woke up in his bed one morning, realising he was gone. I found him in the livingroom, where he sat with the balcony door open and big headphones on, smoking and wrapped in a blanket. It was early and cold and the sun shined on his hair. He was lost in the music and then he turned around and saw me. I was afraid I’d scare him, but he just smiled and took his headphones off.  
  
”Morning, babe… Sorry for leaving bed…”  
  
I took the headphones and kissed his hair. The music was ridiculously loud and melancholic and he held up the envelope. Moonsorrow – _Voimasta ja Kunniasta_. The song wroaring in my ears called _Sankaritarina_ , in English _A hero’s tale_. It was so incredibly sad, heavy and slow, I remember instantly getting worried and taking them off, asking my boyfriend if something was wrong. And he startled for a moment before putting a hand on my cheek, giving me one of his bright smiles and his eye all soft and warm.  
  
”I’d never listen to this if something was, muppet.”  
  
_Muppet_. The endearment that really should be an insult, but not with us. That’s my husband’s word for telling me I shouldn’t worry so much. That he loves me and whatever I worry about, it will be alright.  
  
I put the record on and use his headphones.  
  
I’ve heard a lot of my husband’s favourite records over the years and even if most of them are far from my taste, it would feel very strange if he stopped listen to them. _Voimasta ja Kunniasta_ is one of his favourites and I sit down in the large chair where he usually sits if he wants to turn up the volume to max but not disturb me. _  
_  
And I listen. I listen while I press one of Ned’s t-shirts to my face, pretending he’s kneeling behind me, wrapping his arms around my neck and tickling me with his hair. That he’s nuzzling my neck and whispering. _Hey there, muppet…_ _How about yer favourite husband makes us some coffee and then ye tell’im what’s wrong so he can fix it?_  
  
Yes, please. Please, please, please, Ned… Fix me so I know how to help you. ’Cause if I can’t, then your mother could just as well strangle me on spot.  


	6. Ned (1st person)

My version of being left alone, is me being fucking on my own, but the hospital and most of all my husband seem to have a different idea of it. Anne is keeping me company which is just stupid because I’m already guarded like a bloody infant here. But I prefer her and Maread to other company right now. I’m still very tired from maw’s visit and when I raise my back, the world is spinning.  
  
”Easy there.”  
  
Anne’s voice is dark and always slightly annoyed. She has a hand around my head before I even realise I’m loosing balance and she lowers me carefully.  
  
”You’re thirsty?”  
  
I nod. Anne shifts, places her right hand around my neck and grabs the glass with her left. Normally I’d be pissed getting a straw in the glass like a fucking toddler, but I’m too thirsty to care right now. The lukewarm water is the best I’ve had in years and when it’s gone I sink back.  
  
”More.”  
  
Somewhere in my mind I know it’s unpolite to not say _thanks_ but the sudden thirst seems to make me forget my manners. Anne lowers my head and refills it from a jug in stainless steel on the bedside table. I don’t really mind her touching me. At least not with Maread here. My dog is laying beside me and when I’ve had enough water, I pat her head.  
  
”Hey girl…”  
  
She’s such a sweet dog, so calm and patient with me. Anne sits down again.  
  
”Mrs. Low left some hours ago. Said I’d call her if you wanted anything.”  
”She’s with Billy?”  
”Yeah. He told me to call too in case.”  
”Don’t. Not now at least. Don’t need a fucking crowd in here.”  
”Figured you didn’t so I don’t plan on calling.”  
  
I smile.  
  
”Thanks.”  
  
She just shrugs and I look around the room, while petting my dog.  
  
”Gotta be quite boring job… just sitting here.”  
”Nah. I have books.”  
”What are ye reading?”  
”The Name Of The Rose. Read it like twenty times.”  
”Liked it too. Maybe not _that_ much, but it’s a good book. Wanna know who the murderer is? In case ye forgot.”  
  
Anne smiles. It’s not exactly a smile, more like a half grin.  
  
”Or I could ruin it for you by reading aloud with the wrong voice.”  
  
She’s right. Sometimes books being read with a different voice can ruin them. But I don’t think Anne’s grumpy voice is among them. I close my eyes. Anne is a good person to be left alone with.  
  
”Go ahead. Ruin it for me.”


	7. Billy (3rd person)

Anne comes by with Mary Read and Billy’s heart jumps a little. Of course they can’t have the dog on the hospital without himself or Anne to take responsible for her, but knowing Ned is alone… Anne tells him John came by. That he said he’d stay til night staff begin. Billy just nods, swallowing before being able to answer.  
  
”Thank you. I mean… this, you’re paid extra for this, you know that, right?”  
”No problem.”  
  
Anne just nods and pats Mary Read’s head.  
  
”I’ll come by at eight tomorrow. As usual.”  
”You take Mary Read with you?”  
”Yeah.”  
”Thanks, Anne. This… I mean…”  
”Really, it’s no problem, Billy. Take care.”  
”You too. Bye.”  
”Bye.”  
  
She’s a treasure. Billy once again reminds himself of how lucky he and Ned are for having this help. As lucky as one could be in this situation, corrects himself. Lucky is really not a word that feels suitable, but was it not for James, they wouldn’t have Anne Bonny or Mary Read. Knowing John is by Ned’s side now, is also a comfort not many people would have.   
  
Mary Read hasn’t met Elan yet. Billy’s mother-in-law is in the kitchen, making her mini cottage pies with ground beef and mushrooms and talking to Hal, who’s not a bad cook either but has taken a seat as well as an offered beer. Billy takes Ned’s service dog inside and let her say hello to her human  ”grandparents”, who of course want to spoil her with ground beef. Mary Read looks at Billy with eyes saying ”this is good for me, it looks and smells good and I’m a good dog, right?”   
  
Feeling bad for keeping her separated from her daddy and introducing knew people to her without him present, Billy lets Elan spoil her with a teaspoon of unspiced ground beef and then tells her to lie in her kitchen bed. They have doggy beds in every room in the house, so Mary Read always has a spot where she can keep watch. A service dog is trained not to pay attention to things that doesn’t concern the task of supporting his or her mom or dad. Only Billy or Anne can, for example, take her away from Ned. She doesn’t follow other people than those three and she’ll obey Ned first, then Billy and last Anne.   
  
The introudction with Elan goes well and when Billy has set the table and sits down, Mary Read trots over to her daddy’s husband, as Billy refers himself to since he’s not her daddy, and puts her head on his thigh like she does with Ned when he needs her.  
  
The warm feeling of her head is surprisingly comforting and Billy pets her automatically while smalltalking a little with Hal and Elan. It’s weirdly normal, almost surreal, seeing dad and Ned’s mom cooking and talking recipes, gardening and families like they’re on a pleasant visit. Billy raises from the chair.  
  
”I have to take Mary Read out before dinner.”  
  
Elan gives a small smile over her shoulder.  
  
”Dinner’s ready in fifteen. Ye take’er back to the hospital later?”  
”Yeah. John’s there for a few hours, so I can take her for a hike. Don’t want Anne to be dragged around in this weather.”  
”She’s the assistent?”  
”Yeah.”  
  
Elan looks confused for a second.  
  
”Is that common? Assistents?”  
”No. She’s hired privately.”  
”Aint that expensive?”  
  
Billy smiles.  
  
”Probably, but it’s James and Elle who’re paying and they refuse to tell us the costs. It’s thanks to them we have Mary and Anne. They’re wealthy but… well, you know, it’s not polite to talk about money so they never do. And so we don’t know what all this costs but we know we’re damn lucky with friends.”  
”I would say so, yes… Guess there’s some justice in this world, after all…”  
  
_Is there?_ Billy doesn’t say it, only thinks it and he puts his sneakers and a jacket on, leaving with the patient golden retriever in her leash.   
  
He walks calmly, calmer than he really is. The air is fresh from rain and when Mary Read is done with her business, Billy lets her run a little to work her muscles. Laying still in a bed is part of her job, but she’s still a dog and one that needs to excercise. Living close to a forest is luxuary, especially with a dog, and Billy takes deep breaths, trying to erase the smells of sickness, angst and rubbing alcohol that never really seems to leave him completely.  
  
Billy is tired of those smells. What he wants to smell is blood. Woodes blood. And when he’s in the forest, he allows his thoughts to run riot.    
  
While running between these trees, he’s not a calm, civilised citizen. Not a gentle, loving husband. Here he’s an avenger, hanging up his ex and two women on crooks, cutting them alive like that much pork while they scream and beg for deaf ears. Over stock and stone his hate is unleashed, boiling and pumping in his blood. He no longer sees Ned’s face before him, doesn’t feel his skin under his hands, his body pressed to him in sleep. All he feels and sees is a man and two women slowly dying from his hands, again and again, until the path takes him back home and he goes inside to the scent of cottage pies, lit candles and the absence of Ned, like a repeated stab between his ribs reminding Billy his heart is missing.  


	8. Ned (3rd person)

”Want some?”  
  
John holds up a can of orange soda and Ned just snorts.  
  
”They’ll kick ye out if ye make me drink that.”  
”Because of course you’d just drink anything I… Fuck. Ned, I’m sorry, I didn’t…”  
  
Remembering how it sounds, John makes a regretful grimaze. Ned rolls his eyes.  
  
”I know. And stop saying ye’re sorry, I already know ye don’t mean to fucking upset me. Jesus… All of ye… so fucking _sorry_ …”  
  
He sounds bitter. He is. What kind of saint or tool you have to be, for not being bitter in this situation?  
  
Ned had a life. And a bloody good one with a sweet, loving husband, a beautiful home, friends, a good job and a maw, sister and father-in-law he’s close with. Why could it not have stayed like that? Why did it all have to be ruined?   
  
”I still can’t stand cruisings. Or breakfast buffets. Whenever we’re going somewhere and have to stay at hotels, we never eat in the dining halls. We go out for breakfast, on cafés.”  
  
What’s John talking about? Cruisings? Breakfast buffets?  
  
”It’s almost sixteen years ago and I still get anxious if I hear the word canteen or see commercials from Princess Cruises. Somehow I just think Beth will show up.”  
”Beth?”  
”My rapist.”  
  
_My rapist._ He says it so plainly, with such ease. Ned looks up. John hasn’t changed. He doesn’t look like another person, doesn’t look like his world has fallen to pieces. He looks calm.   
  
”You know how I dealt with it?”  
  
Ned doesn’t answer, but he looks at his friend, waiting for him to tell. John sighs.  
  
”I didn’t deal with it at all. I started to fuck around like some slut. It’s a fucking miracle I didn’t end up getting aids, you know. I slept with so many I can’t even remember a number anymore. Most of the time I wasn’t even in the mood. Just… kept getting laid with whoever wanted me because I somehow thought that was the right thing. I don’t think I thought about it like that, but later I guess I realised… that I did it to proove I was gay and that she’d not ruined sex for me.”  
  
A small, cynical chuckle comes from John.  
  
”So fucked up... But I wasn’t myself. I’m not comparing our situations, Ned, and if anyone understands why you just want to forget about it, it’s me. But the shame… You know, I still feel it sometimes. Even if I know it wasn’t my fault. ’Cause I believed it was for so long… The only way a man can get raped, is if he’s one hundred percent straight and gets knocked out by some kind of gay bodybuilder and wakes up tied or chained. If you’re to believe society… ’Cause straight men always want to fuck and gay men want to fuck or get fucked…”  
  
The anger. John’s voice is calm, but the anger when he talks about society is very, very real. Men always want sex. Gay men want to fuck every guy they see. Taking anything up the ass freely must mean you’re gay. Not wanting it, makes you more of a man. You can fuck another man and not being gay. Falling in love with men but not wanting to fuck or get fucked is just… a waste of cock.  
  
”It wasn’t your fault, Ned. No one in their right mind would think that. And even if it doesn’t seem like it now, there’s a way out from this. You can still have your life back.”


	9. Billy (1st person)

The scene is so gentle, so sweet I don’t want to disturbe. Mary Read trots inside but I still keep her in her leash. You’re holding John’s hand while sleeping and you look calm. John smiles at me, eyes warm and I instantly feel a little better, despite the information from the staff that you’ve cried a lot just an hour before I came back. You feel safe with John and that’s a good sign. I’m counting every one of them these days.   
  
I wipe Mary Read’s paws and take her leash off. If you’re within sight, she doesn’t need a leash at all. You’re her number one focus and she looks at you the very moment we come inside. John lowers the bed and she climbs up to lay by her daddy’s side. You move a little in your sleep and I lean over to kiss your cheek. You don’t wake up so you must be tired. I turn to John.  
  
”How’s it been?”  
”Calmer than usual.”  
  
John still looks more tired than usual thou and I feel bad for getting so much help from him and our other friends. John smirks. He can read me like a book.  
  
”Stop right there, Billy. Yes, he’s cried a lot tonight but trust me, he’s making progress.”  
  
I trust him. John is better at reading people than anyone I know and I know he wouldn’t say something like this if he wasn’t absolutely positive.   
  
”You had a nice evening?”  
”Yeah. Elan sent you cottage pies.”  
”She did? Oh, man… can I adopt your mother-in-law?”  
  
I smile at his blissful face. John loves Elan’s cottage pies and when she found out he was keeping you company at the hospital, she made six extra for John to take home to James. John looks like he could wolf them all down on the spot and I keep the package out of reach.  
  
”They’re for James too.”  
”Damn. She’ll find out if I don’t share, right?”  
”Since James always sends her personal complimants for her food, I’m afraid she will.”  
”Typical.”  
”You go home now, John. Oh, I almost forgot.”  
  
I open my bag and finds a bottle of red I know he and James like. John grins.  
  
”You’re a darling.”  
  
He hides his treasures in his own bag, gives you a small kiss and pats Mary Read’s head. I hug him, get a kiss on my cheek and then he leaves with his well-earned goodies.   
  
I take my jacket off and sit down. You really do look calm and I wonder what John did to make that happen. It’s a different kind of calm than the one coming from exhaustion or just weariness. Even if James was my friend before John, in some ways John is way more close. He’s really not one who likes to talk about his own life, getting close to him is difficult even when he opens up, but John understands me in a way no one else does.   
  
Two gay orphans ending up in the same third grade class. What’s the odds? I was lonely and quiet, he talked like he was paid by the minute and already looked girlish with his curly hair and bright grin and we sat next to each other in class. He always smiled, except one day when he came to school with shaved head. His foster parents were mad at him being late home. I understood immediately they weren’t his real parents, or adoptive parents, because he called them by their first names. So I told him about mine. Not much, because it wasn’t necessairy with details. We very quickly understood there was another kid who also didn’t live with a mom or dad, who didn’t know how long he would live with these particular people.   
  
Of course, we didn’t know we were gay at the time, but sharing the bond of not really having any bonds changed our world. When the social worker came on an unexpected visit to my foster parents, I was black and blue from being hit by a wooden hanger and she immediately removed me from them and I ended up in a temporary orphanage, crying my eyes out and wet the bed every night because I was lonely and scared wanted John to come with me. But I didn’t even get to say goodbye and I couldn’t call him. He’d been moved too.  
  
Later on, we were both grateful for that, because it put a stop on a terrible situation, but I was inconsolable and on top of that terrified for the man they’d placed me with. He was big and strong with moustaches and already bald despite his young age. Hal was my savior in every way and he never laid a hand on me. He loved me as his own and I ended up calling him dad later because that’s what he was. When he finally made me open up about why I cried every night, I’d lived with him for a month, still wetting my bed and very confused Hal didn’t spank me or even scolded at me. I remember he’d given me a shower and changed my bedsheets for the umpteenth time after a nightmare and made me a cup of chocolate, when he found out about John.  
  
Dad’s never really liked John once we got into our teens, but he was the one who the very next morning called the social services and practically barked at them for splitting up two already drifting kids like that. It turned out John didn’t live more than ten miles from us and Hal convinced his foster parents they should let us meet regularly and even – which was truly amazing for both me and John – speak on phone every week.   
  
John and I have been there for each other ever since even if dad can’t stand him sometimes. He’s even tried to pretend he forgot about John’s name and called him ”the curly one”, probably because he’s still embarressed John was yelling at him on phone after I came out.  
But truth is, John’s the closest to a brother I have, and there’s no one I trust more to look out for you. Whatever he’s been able to make you tell him, I know there’s a reason why you chose to open up for him and not me. It’s not because John’s closer to you or a better friend than your other, or that I’m not good enough for you to talk to.   
  
I know better than anyone, that sometimes John is simply the one who’ll understand you in just the way you need in just the right moment. And knowing that me and Mary Read aren’t the only ones who can make you feel safe right now, is a relief that could make me fly.


	10. Ned (1st person)

I wanted this to go away, I didn’t want to die. I have no other answer. Not for Billy, not for maw, not for the doc. My arms burn worse than I imagined they would, but the shame is worse. I have my doctor’s appointment in my room because I’m still too tired to walk very good or sit up for longer moments. Dr. Howell is actually a quite pretty man, but I guess that’s inapropriate to think. He smiles and nods at Mary Read.  
  
”It’s a good thing you can have her with you. How are you feeling?”  
”Tired. Sore. But that’s me own making.”  
”What happened, Ned? Could you tell me?”  
”Don’t know really… Don’t wanted to die, I just… wanted to disappear.”  
  
I’ve dreaded to say it, but Dr. Howell just nods.  
  
”That’s very common when people go through a trauma. It’s only natural for the brain to try and avoid thinking about it. And if the anxiety becomes too hard to handle, we’re less open-minded to solutions. Do you remember how you felt when you took the decision to disappear?”  
”Calm.”  
”Because you felt in control?”  
”Yeah…”  
”Did you think you were doing others a favour?”  
  
I swallow. My mouth feels so dry.  
  
”Yes…”  
  
He must think I’m crazy. He’ll be angry with me.  
  
”Almost every person I’ve met who’s thought about suicide, believes that, Ned. When the brain is under attack from anxiety and depression, especially with posttraumatic stress disorder, the illness will distort reality in different ways. Nightmares and insomna are very common, so are panic attacks and flashbacks. Senses of guilt and shame are extremely common too.”  
  
He doesn’t sound angry, but I still hold Mary Read tight.  
  
”Don’t what I was thinking… Everyone’s helping me and I just…”  
  
I’m just an ungrateful ass who can’t appreciate all the things people are doing for me. I want Billy, I want Anne and I want John. And Mary Read. No one else. I hate to feel like a restoration object. Hate the schedules, the nutrition drinks, the meds and the way I’m constantly looked after. Hate knowing that our friends and families are pausing their routines to look after me like I’m some kind of sick toddler. I never wanted to die, I just wanted my life back.  
  
My sobbing confession makes the doc take my hand and hand me a tissue.  
  
”Ned, as your doctor, I would strongly recommend you to see a psychologist.”  
”Tried two and they only made me feel worse.”  
”I know and I’m truly sorry your family doctor remitted you to them without making sure they suited your needs. But fact is, you’ve been on our waiting list for a psychologist quite long now and there’s a possibilty for you to meet with a licensed psychologist and sexual trauma specialist called Emily Hudson.”  
  
Sexual trauma. Just hearing those words makes me cringe. I don’t want to remember anymore, I want to fucking forget this. Want to bury it in fucking ocean cave, never to think, talk or hear about it again. And I don’t want my friends to pay for expensive help, which I tell him, but this fucking doc already has an answer.  
  
”No, this is not a private psychologist, Ned. It’s the same help we offer any patient on our waiting list. It is truly remarkable, the things your friends and family have been able to do for you, but this is your choise and no one needs to know if you don’t want to. Not even Billy, although I don’t recomend keeping it a secret to him. But no one but you needs to be involved. It would be only you and Emily, once a week for about an hour and you get to move on in a pace that works for you.”  
”What if it doesn’t work?”  
”You’re not forced to see her or any other psychologist should you choose not to. But I recomend it. Emily’s worked with male patients too and I know she’s well liked.”  
  
I’m sure she is. Everything is so fucking good, everyone’s so professional, so suitable for my situation. I don’t have to think, feel or do anything by myself. The only thing missing would be a fucking nappy and a dodie. Then maw could sing me a nice lullaby and everything would be just deadly.  
  
”We’ll need to keep you here for observation a couple of days, but if you agree to give this psychologist a go and we see a change in the right direction, you wouldn’t have to be permitted to a locked ward.”  
  
I don’t want to die, don’t know how to live, I don’t want fucking meds, care or therapy but what would make me completely gone in the head for real, would be getting locked up.  
  
”Ye want me in a looney house?”  
”I want you to get your life back, Ned. Don’t you?”  
  
I don’t answer, just clutch at Mary Read’s fur. I feel so completely fucking useless but she’s not a human and can’t compare. She’s the only living creature, the only thing that can drag me out of my own head, away from the icy road, out of the foreverdark woods without making me feel stripped and examined. I don’t deserve all this help and I will only make people disappointed for not making the best of it but it’s the least bad option right now and I nod.  
  
”I’ll try, on one condition.”  
”What’s that?”  
”Don’t want anyone to talk ’bout it. If I hear anyone saying I’m good, doing the right fucking thing or making progress, or if I feel… fucking watched, it’s off.”  
”Of course. You want me to tell your husband that?”  
”Doesn’t matter. Ye can tell’im… what ye want...”  
  
I’m tired. Talking, crying, feeling… It all takes to fucking much of my energy. I don’t even know all the stuff they use to get me this cooperative and I don’t want to know. I just want to be left alone with the furry creature by my side. Want to rest. Just fucking rest... I’m so tired.


	11. Billy (3rd person)

”Bad news?”  
”What? No… No, not at all.”  
  
It’s quite the opposite, really. Billy’s teary-eyed, but he wants to shout out in happiness. Hal and Elan have advanced from cooking to gardening this afternoon and Billy’s been able to get some time for himself, just watching soccer and read in blissful loneliness. As blissful as it could be with a suicidal husband on hospital. And then Dr. Howell called. Billy’s always prepared for bad news. Another fit, another nightmare. Food that gets thrown up and fear, fear constantly lurking under the surface that just waits for an opportunity to tear Ned’s peaceful moments to shreads.   
  
Elan has stopped raking the newly cut grass and she leans at the rake, looking worried.   
  
”Billy, who was it? Was it the hospital?”  
”Yeah.”  
”And? Why are ye crying?”  
  
Billy smiles, wiping his eyes.  
  
”It’s good news, Elan. T’was Dr. Howell. Ned’s been offered a psychologist.”  
”And?”  
”And what?”  
  
Elan rolls her eyes.  
  
”And did me stubborn son agree to take the offer?”  
”Yes.”  
”He did?”  
”God works in mysterious ways… Or would, if there was one. Oh, c’mere, son.”  
  
Billy’s mother-in-law is a tiny giant with hard fists and she reminds of her son’s. Ned is not even close to Billy’s size or muscle mass, but his hands are like tough, lithe iron. Elan is too short to embrace Billy’s neck even on her tip-toes, so she practically bruises his arms with her hands now. She breathes out, long and deep and Billy feels the tension leave her. Elan is stronger than most, but she’s only human and a mother who loves her children more than anything.   
  
She lets go of Billy, hauls up a napkin and wipes her nose. Then she pats his cheek.  
  
”How about ye tell Hal, dear, and I put the kettle on?”  
  
He nods and Elan walks inside. Hal’s at their rose bush on the south side of the garden, releasing it from some dead branches.    
  
”Alright, Billy?”  
”Yeah.”  
”Anything new from the hospital?”  
”Doc’s called. It’s… getting better. I think.”  
  
Hal sighs and a little smile appears on his serious face.   
  
”Thank God. You’re going back tonight?”  
”Only to say goodnight and take Mary for a hike. Anne’s staying the night.”  
”All night?”  
  
Billy sighs.  
  
”I know, private hired, expensive, friends paying and it’s fucking insane but I’m not in the mood for thinking about that now, dad. Tonight I just want to focus on something that doesn’t make me feel guilty and insufficient. And what kind of a husband would I be, if I turned down the best help Ned could get when offered?”  
”You’re right, I’m just amazed by the kind of friends you’ve got.”  
”Believe me, so am I.”  
  
A knock from inside the guestroom window interrupts them.  
  
”Oi, lads! Tea’s ready!”  
  
Normality. So damn expensive and still people count on it, getting surprised when it’s not there. And the old cliché isn’t less true just because it’s cliché: you never know what you have until it’s gone.


	12. Ned (3rd person)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: there's a pretty graphic description of a gang rape in this chapter.

”Do you want me to come with you? I mean… you can’t drive.”  
”Thanks for the reminder.”  
”Ned…”  
”I know. Sorry.”  
  
Accepting to try therapy isn’t easy and it doesn’t help that Billy is so relieved. It looks like it’s Ned’s decision, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it. And he’s not released from the hospital yet, he’s still laying like a heavy bag of bones in this fucking bed. Ned sighs.  
  
”It may not work, Billy. Ye know that, right?”  
”Don’t know that until you’ve tried. But no, I’m not sitting here thinking it will do all the difference.”  
”Good, ’cause I’m tired of disappointing.”  
”You’re not. This… whole thing sucks and we both hate it, but it’s not your fault. If you even for a second think I blame you for what happened…”  
  
Paws. Nose. Warmth. _Breathe, Ned_. Why can’t his mind just allow him to forget?  
  
”Honey, don’t go there.”  
  
Steady hand. Calm voice. Ned isn’t steady or calm. Isn’t strong. His body isn’t his own and he wants to remember a time when it was. He squeezes Billy’s hand, tries to breathe as he forces himself to ask.  
  
”Did I tell ye who…”  
  
On some level Ned is fairly sure Billy knows, that he’s told him in a clouded moment.  
  
”Yes.”  
  
Calm voice. Steady hand. The world isn’t falling apart around them, but maybe that’s because it’s already in ruins.  
  
”I know, Ned. You told me once, when you had a fit.”  
”Ye… ye wasn’t supposed to know…”  
”And I understand why.”  
  
His husband isn’t raging, isn’t panicking or accusing Ned of anything. No, the world isn’t falling apart, but Ned is. Quietly. Invisbly.  
  
”I understand why you didn’t tell me. At least I think I understand… as much as I’m able to. I’m not saying you should’ve told me or anything, because I’m not you. I know you well, but I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same. Not telling. It’s… so easy saying what one should’ve done before it happens…”  
  
Paws. Nose. Warmth. _Breathe, Ned_. _Just fucking breathe._  
  
”I think about them all the time, Ned. How could I not…?”  
”Please stop... Billy, please… _Please?_ ”  
  
It takes so little. So few words to make the white hospital walls shake. To turn the ground into mud, making him loose footing, sinking down again just when he thought he’d climbed up to a steady plateau. When he’s just made it up from the ditch, exhausted and numb from cold, he’s falling back. Blue eyes, glittering, but not in a friendly way. They’re malicious and cold, stripping his already partly naked body through skin and bones.  
  
There are tongues in his ears, a disgusting tingle working through his limp body, a rippling under his skin he’s not asked for and he’s hard, harder than he’s ever been before. His muscles have all turned to useless goo, he’s like a boned fish in the folded backseat, leaned back between two large, soft breasts, but his fucking cock is so hard he aches and he can’t move. Blond curls falling in his face and the mouth is laughing when he tries to turn away from the kiss.  
  
He’s trying to squirm, effortless, as he’s surrounded with hot wetness. Curly, brown hair moving back and forth over a red shirt, breathy moans and laughs so close he can feel the chewinggum breath and the smell of cinnamon. Why wont his cock go limp? It’s painful and he just wants it to stop, tries to make his body obey but it’s not his to command anymore. When the woman finally goes off him, he wants to think it’s over, that they’re done but they just shift positions. They move and arrange his body like it’s a doll and a musky scent hits his nose as two strong arms takes the woman’s place.  
  
The pointless attempt to rise is met with a soft chuckle and he falls back against a man’s chest. The other woman takes the cinnamon girl’s place and more of the disgusting wetness and heat surrounds him. They’re laughing, commenting. Calling him stallion, telling him he likes this more than they’d hoped for. But Ned only feels pain, fear and disgust. His body is betraying him, laughing at him. He’s still hard when the blonde woman’s done with him and he’s turned to his stomach. The drag and pull, talk to each other like he’s an object and then he can hear the sound of fabric being teared.  
  
Hard, warm hands are bruising his hips and buttocks. A slicked finger pushes inside him and when he tries to move, tries to scream, he’s told to lie still and shut the fuck up or he’ll take him dry. It’s not the words that makes him stop squirming, but the voice. It has no warmth, no compassion what so ever and when the hard, meaty organ enters him, the pain is so sharp Ned looses his breath. _Please stop... please… please?_  
  
”Ned? Ned!”  
__  
Paws. Nose. Warmth _._ _Breathe, Ned_. _Just fucking breathe._  
  
”Darling, talk to me! What’s happening?”  
  
_Breathe, Ned. Breathe, so you can feel you’re not dead. You’re in pain, that must mean you’re still alive, right? It hurts when they push you out from the car, when you hit the icy road, when you roll down into the ditch. The cold makes you slow, but it also clouds the pain. Can’t feel as much and you must get up and onto the road again, Ned… It’s not a deep ditch, you can do it… Just get up fromt that fucking ditch…_  
  
Paws. Nose. Warmth.  
  
Ned doesn’t scream. He cries. Because the night seems so everlasting and the woods forever dark.  


	13. Billy (1st person)

It may not work.   
  
I’m holding you in my arms, have you swept in a blanket and I’m kissing you… letting you rest. I’m holding your hand, nothing else, drowning into your eyes, one of them forever blind. Loving you, while the night still hides the withering dawn…  
  
It may not work.  
  
There’s so much that doesn’t work. But your heart, your lungs still work. You still have warm blood in your veins and you’re still crying from the needle. It breaks me every time. I don’t know why, I’m not afraid of needles, but to see you cry from a thing as small and thing as an AV needle, remembering the strong man you were before, is so painful.   
  
It may not work.  
  
You’re not fully asleep, but close, and that allows me to dream. About us. About you. I rest my mouth in your hair as my thoughts take me back to a rainy November night more than three years ago. I’d been so nervous that morning, John and Charles were actually worried I’d run away and hide. Eleanor was, as usual, the one who calmed the situation by giving me a little slap on cheak and threaten to sing out of tone to make me crack. She’s a master on purposefully awful singing and I always laugh my ass off when she does that.   
  
It may not work.  
  
John and James were arguing about the angle of my boutonniere seconds before I had a chance to think about emergency exit and think it wouldn’t work, and then the music started and I saw you. Smiling. Hair still falling in your eyes a little and just absolutely perfect in your suit. Canon in D on two violins – Idelle and Aisha, another girl from your theatre group were playing – and I was actually afraid I’d screw up something as we walked down the isle that wasn’t an isle because no church but who cared.  
  
It may not work.  
  
The ceremony, the party… Our strange choise of music, the relaxed dinner. I stopped thinking it wouldn’t work as soon as I heard the words ”lawfully wedded husband”. When you said ”I do”, I had to take a deep breath through my nose, to not start crying. When we exchanged rings, my hands were shaky and when  I bent down to kiss you, Idelle and Aisha, one of the other members from your theatre group, sang ”You’ll Be In My Heart”.  
  
It may not work.  
  
_Come stop your crying, it will be alright. Just_ _take my hand, hold it tight. I will protect you, from all_ _around you. I will be here, don't you cry. For one so small, you seem so strong, my arms will hold you, keep you safe and warm. This bond between us, can't be broken. I will be here, don't you cry._  
  
It may not work.  
  
You’re resting in my arms on a chair in your hospital room. Your body is still too light, ribs visible where lean flesh and muscles once met my hands. You’ve never felt so small. So still without feeling calm. So far from the night we, exhausted and giggling, fell into a pile of sweetness in our new bed for the first time. We were tipsy, amazed and relieved it had all gone so well. Worked out so well.  
  
It may not work.  
  
No. But it has to. _It has to, my heart._  
  
I can wait. For the other half of my own heart, it’s not even a question if I can wait. I simply must. The love I have for you allows nothing else and I knew that the day I said yes. If I’d say to myself I didn’t sign up for this, I’d be lying. I didn’t marry you only to get the good days. We’re humans and the world is sometimes a really shitty place. But no one, no memories or nightmares are gonna take you from me. I’m only letting you go if that’s your own, true wish.   
   
Your nightmare is mine too and I’ll do whatever I can to wake you up. I’ll lead, drag, carry, beg, pray, cry and if necessairy even lure you out these foreverdark woods. It may seem everlasting, but it's not. It's not.


	14. Ned (1st person)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since I have no experience of therapy for victims of rapes or other forms of sexual abuse, it's a bit tricky to make the psychologist sessions credible, since I don't know how that kind of therapy works. If I fail with this, tell me, but bare in mind I'm really trying my best and want it to be clear I'm always, 100%, on the victim's side. The tag "victim blaming" is for the extremely ugly side of humanity trying to blame victims of any kind of sexual assault and the influence is has on Ned (and other characters), but in every sane person's mind, there should be no such thing as victim blaming.

Emily Hudson doesn’t look at all like I imagined with her heartshaped face and curly hair. She’s neatly dressed in black slacks and a creme coloured blouse. And sneakers, which looks a bit weird to the rest of her outfit. But on the other hand, I didn’t imagine her looks at all. At least I’ve had a shower and wear jeans instead of hospital sweats.  
  
”Hello, Edward, I’m Emily Hudson, psychologist.”  
”Hi. It’s Ned, by the way.”  
  
She doesn’t reach her hand out and I’m grateful for that, ’cause I’m not comfortable with touching other people even a little right now.  
  
”Ned, then. And you can call me Emily. Please, have a seat.”  
  
The room is simple. Just a sofa, a desk with computor and office stuff, two stuffed chairs and a small table with a jar of water, plastic mugs and a box of tissues. I sit down on the sofa. Billy’s waiting outside and will take me back to the hospital after this. Maw will probably come by later too and I get tired just thinking about it.  
  
”Are you tired today?”  
  
I smile.  
  
”I’m always tired.”  
  
That’s true. I’ve not been alert in any way since that night. My energy levels are non-existing.  
  
”For how long?”  
”Well, since… since that happened.”  
  
I’m too aware of my appearence. Of how scrawny I look. Emily has a notebook and a pencil.  
  
”How do you feel about being here today?”  
”I… I don’t know.”  
  
I don’t panic or anything like it and that’s good, I guess. Emily just nods.  
  
”That’s okay. Would you like to talk about why you’re here?”  
”PTSD, they say.”  
  
I’m not comfortable with this. Of course she already knows why I’m here and I give her a glare.  
  
”I was… attacked.”  
  
Paws. Nose. Fur. Breathe, Ned. It’s just words. Some fucking words. I try to remember that some people know this already. The doc and other medical staff. Billy. John. The Hamilton couple. And others might have guessed. I was in the papers. Not with name and picture, but I was headlines for a couple of days, when I was still unconscious. I swallow.  
  
”I was left on the road. In the snow and it was…”  
  
I wait for her to interrupt me or put words in my mouth, but she just sits there. Calm, listening. Looking at me without staring.  
  
”It was… almost four miles of just… woods.”  
  
Foreverdark woods.  
  
_Woodes._    
  
Paws. Nose. Fur.  
  
”Don’t know how to describe it.”  
”Ned, you’re perfectly safe in here and you don’t have to stress. This is our first session and it’s normal not knowing how to start talking about things you don’t want to think or speak about.”  
”I just want it to… be as before…”  
”Then maybe we could start with before. How was your life before the assault?”  
”I was happy.”  
  
I was a husband, a friend and a collegue. I was an actor, a librarian and loved books and music. Loved the physical rolls, the more acrobatic the better. Loved the concerts. I was happy and now I’m not.  
  
”I shouldn’t have left my drink unattended.”  
  
If I’d not done that, this wouldn’t have happened.  
  
Paws. Nose. Fur. My chest has tightened, as has my throat.  
  
”I have worked with survivers from rape and sexual abuse for sixteen years, Ned, and while the situations, rapists and places are as many as they’re different, the one thing almost every person sitting in that chair have said to me, is ’I shouldn’t have’. Shouldn’t have been drinking, shouldn’t have walked home alone, shouldn’t have been paralized, shouldn’t have been wearing those clothes… The list of things we are taught the victim of a rape ought to have done to prevent it from happening, is nothing but a list of unjust and completely false blame.”  
  
Her voice is calm, but very firm. There’s no doubt in her heartshaped face, nothing that suggests she’s questioning what she just said.     
  
”The blame lies with nothing or noone but the rapist.”  
  
I’m feeling sick and exhausted. Drained. When I look at my hands clutching Mary Read’s fur, I realise they’re all sweaty. I’m completely drenched in my own sweat. Fucking disgusting.  
  
”Ned?”  
”What?”  
”Talking about the trauma like we just did, is often very painful and also exhausting. It takes a lot of both courage and energy to do it, and it’s natural to try and force it back by silence. We are tought that sharing deeply painful things with others, should be avoided. And certain things, as abuse of all kinds and especially sexual, are we taught to feel ashamed of.”  
  
She has a pleasent voice, but I don’t want to hear more now. I know I’m ashamed and that logic tells me I shouldn’t. If someone had asked me, before it happened to me I, if I thought rape victims should be blamed I would’ve snapped and told the person to go fuck himself. Or herself.  
  
But I’m ashamed. Billy thinks I’m angry with Woodes and the women, like he is, but I’m not. The only person I’m angry with, is myself. I’m ashamed for not keeping an eye on my drink, for not reckognizing Woodes through the mist of booze and for loosing sight of Ben and Jacob. I’m ashamed for being so easy to lead to the car, for letting Woodes and Charlotte put their arms around me as if we were old friends. I’m ashamed for laughing and joking in the backseat with the women, for not realising something felt different from normal drunkenness even before I entered the car.  
  
There’s no word to describe the shame and disgust I felt even before I became afraid. I feel it now, in this room, and I’m done talking. Can’t make myself utter another word. I just hold onto Mary Read and hope the time in here is up soon before I crumble and can’t pull myself together again.


	15. Billy (3rd person)

A whole afternoon leave under supervision from a dog, a PCA, a husband, a mother and a father-in-law is hardly what one would call a relaxed time off. Saffron Walden almost seems like an extension of the ward now. Visiting Tea Amo is just out of the question and Billy decides for home.   
  
Ned just nods. He’s very tired from the session with Emily the other day and just holds onto Mary Read in the back seat. As much as Billy loves to take Ned home for a while, he can’t help but wonder if it will be too much for him. He looks like he’s about to fall asleep.   
  
Once home, Anne takes Mary Read in her leash and Billy helps Ned out. He’s not been home in several days and despite being out of the hospital clothes and dressed like usual, his whole appearence just screams longterm illness while walking to the door, opening it because it’s unlocked and he has no keys anyway. Billy follows him and Anne unleashes Mary Read so she can trot over to her daddy. Both Elan and Hal know they may have to keep a bit distance from Ned and not just go out and hug him as they should wish. Ned sits down on the stairs to take his shoes off.  
  
”Hello! Tea’s done soon.”  
  
Elan sounds almost happy from the kitchen and maybe she is. Last time she saw her son he was laying in a hospital bed and this is an improvement, even if he must use crutches again. And it smells from freshly baked scones. Billy looks at his husband. Movement slow and a bit clumsy. Ned’s so tired from the session he wont be able to sit at the kitchen table or even hold a cup. Someone has to feed him. Someone as in Anne. Billy leans into Ned’s ear.  
  
”You want to rest?”  
”Have to.”  
  
Something from Ned’s old glimspe of life sparkles in his eye and he’s actually smiling.   
  
”Our room.”  
”You want any tea?”  
   
Feeding is something Ned feels particularly uncomfortable with, but if it’s only him and Anne? If Billy stays downstairs with their parents? He asks and gets a nod. The tea and scones, after all, smell very nice. His husband may be scrawny and sick, but maybe he could try something he likes, something normal and nice, today.  
  
Billy carries his husband upstairs, followed by Mary Read. Anne is, of course, permitted upstairs if Ned is there, but she stays in the hallway when she’s not needed. They have a small couch there, and a sidetable with a lamp. Anne will have her tea and scones too, sitting on the couch and read while enjoying a well-earned break once Ned’s resting. Both Hal and Elan thought it was rude not to ”let her” sit downstairs, but Billy explained. Anne doesn’t enjoy small-talk, she enjoys her books. Letting her – and Hal and Elan – suffer through an uncomfortable tea time together wouldn’t be a break for any of them. The hallway upstairs is kind of Anne’s place too for now.  
  
The silent PCA is a help just as vital as Mary Read, the meds or the hospital. Anne Bonny is a serious person, gloomy even, and Billy suspects people misjudge her because of that. But she’s great at her job, partly due to her silence and lack of jauntiness. Ned simply would’ve refused to let her near if she’d been any less gloomy than she is. Right now, thou, it’s just the two of them and Mary Read on their shared bed.   
  
Ned’s sitting up, supported by some pillows and he’s cursing his fatigue as Billy brings the cup to his lips. The tea is flourish, with rose petals, vanilla and elderflower. _Gay as fuck_ , as Ned snorts before he takes a sip and the sweetness spreads in his mouth.  
  
Billy cuts a scone in half, it’s so warm it’s steaming and the thin smear of butter and jam looks like someone’s trying to go on a diet without really doing it. Ned’s not had scones, jam or butter for a fucking eternity and now Billy’s feeding him from the plate, just a small piece, hardly even a mouthful. It’s Ned’s maw’s scones with strawberry jam. It’s the tea Idelle loves when she and Ned are out shopping together and rest their feet on a café. It’s a sliver of normality and as sweet as it is painful.  
  
Mary Read is begging, because even a service dog can smell good stuff and Ned digs in his cardigan for some doggy treats. She’s been a very good girl today and deserves to be a little spoiled.   
  
Crumbs and sips. Billy has no idea what Emily Hudson and Ned talked about and it’s not for him to know. His husband is falling asleep over the cup and Billy puts the tea and scones away. He helps Ned to lie down and the exhausted man smiles as he’s coming to rest on Billy’s arm, with Mary Read as a warm wall close to his back. Protected from all sides.  
  
Billy carefully digs up his phone and starts texting, literally behind his sleeping husband’s back. He texts Anne, asking her to call the ward and ask if it would be alright to come back when Ned wakes up, even if it would be a bit later. After all, he’s not having a panic attack, he’s tried to eat and the meeting with the psychologist went well. He has four people and a dog to look after him and he’s too tired to lift a tea cup. He’s no harm to himself in this state.     
  
Ten minutes later, Anne sends a text back. They can take their time as long as they’re back to the late round or Ned feels worse, of course. Billy puts his phone away, relieved for not having to wake Ned up so soon after he’s come to rest. Grateful, for getting to hold him close on their bed again. For the gay as fuck tea, the help rich friends can buy and the one only loved ones can give. For all the normal things still to reclaim.  


	16. Ned (3rd person)

Survivor. That’s what she called him, this Emily Hudson. A survivor, in Ned’s mind, is someone who’s actually done something to survive, not one who was only spared or saved. _Making yourself, forcing your body to leave that ditch, was you saving yourself, Ned._  
  
He’s back at the hospital since a couple of days, back in the bed he both hates and finds somewhat safe. The leave went well and the only backfire was the weariness, but it was expected. After all, exhaustion is frustrating, but it’s a hell of a lot better than panic, angst and nightmares. Anne stayed until midnight, long after Billy had left and for the first time, Ned realised he actually not only tolerated her company, but enjoyed it. Anne is the link between him, the sickness and normality. The one who’s not seen him before the assault and therefor has no previous Ned to compare with.   
  
He’ll soon fall asleep and Anne is reading in her chair. She has her legs dangling over one of the armrests and the only sound except her calm, quite breaths, is the turning of papers and the occasional ones from lifting her cup of coffee. _Ya’ll probably be really tired tomorrow, so don’t count on anything more than sleep and tube, Ned._ Yes, she’s blunt, but that’s what Ned needs. What he wants. Someone who doesn’t look at him like he’s on the brink of death, or a project of improvement who’s every progress, no matter how small, will make the people participating in it, get all excited.   
  
Anne isn’t waiting for the old Ned to come forth, or a new one to take form. She’s getting paid for caring about the Ned he is now, and that’s a tremendous relief, because that means Ned can’t disappoint her the same way. She doesn’t pity him, doesn’t look at him like she’s trying to figure him out. She’s not trying to get close, but helping him to reset his boarders. She knows what to do, but always asks him first. Not herself, not Billy, not the hospital staff. With her, Ned almost feels like an adult again. An actual person of age who’s only partially and temporarily lost his mind. _It is what it is_ , she says. _Ye can’t start working with anything pretending it’s something else than it is. Never fucking works. Sucks, but it’s just how it is._  
  
His body feels like it’s weighing tons. Ned’s learnt that he will feel like that after a major effort, but it makes him feel very vulnerable. It reminds him of the night he’s no longer able to forget. The loss of control, the unability to fight back, to raise up and walk away. The only help for that, is Mary Read.  
  
Her calm, warm closeness is the perequisite of Anne’s presence. At night, it’s so much harder for Ned’s mind to tell the difference between a kind, familiar face and a stranger’s or the ones visiting his nightmares. The dog in his bed is the warranty for his mind that he’s not in real danger when he wakes up from a nightmare or can’t reckognize the human face or faces actually present in the room. Slowly, Ned’s learnt to trust his dog’s judgement in that space between wake and actual sense of reality. The time spent to land in the now, to calm down before the worried wind can raise to full storm inside him, is slowly but steadily decreasing.   
  
Minutes, just like sips and crumbles, so often get overlooked. The mind so desperately wants any sliver of normality to be the guarantee of solid improvement, that it looses those minutes because it keeps staring at the whole. It wants that sliver to be so much bigger than it is, it’s allowed to take over and be the whole, the new reality. And then, when the day isn’t so good, maybe even really bad, the mind will see failure. It will forget the crumbles and sips, overlook them because they’re too small to make a satisfying picture. And when that happens, the sweet minutes of normality is gone and all Ned feels is failure.  
  
But Anne remembers. She’s keeping track of the crumbles, collects them and when no one else, least of all Ned, can see reality for what it is, she describes them. Clinical, matter-of-factly, without disappointment or excitement. Without ever revealing her own feelings, judging or even asking for Ned’s. If he wants to share them with her, she will listen, but she doesn’t feel the least entitled to them and that’s what stops Ned’s sense of failure to unleash. That Anne can remind him there’s a difference in not being able to brush your teeth one night because you’re exhausted from doing something you couldn’t do a month ago, and not doing it on a usual day with far less exhausting content.  
  
Without Anne Bonny and Mary Read, it wont matter if Emily Hudson calls him a survivor, or how many times Billy tells him he’s not lost, that Ned’s still the man he loves, somewhere beneath all the sore, grey layers. Without the dog who can’t judge or evalutate and the woman who doesn’t need to, there would be no sliver of normality, no sips or crumbles for him to actually enjoy without always comparing them to another life. One Ned so desperately, with every fibre in his fragile body, every sparkle of life in his blood, every thought no matter how deep down in the darkness and self-hate it may take him, wants back. From the moment he wakes up, until he sleeps.


	17. Billy (1st person)

I don’t participate in the actual games, but the guys are okay with that. At least no one says otherwise. Whenever I do show up on a practise, Morley never makes a big deal of it and doesn’t allow anyone else to waste practise time with unwanted questions. And what the fuck would I say if anyone asked how my husband’s doing? That he’s just started therapy, hasn’t tried to hurt himself for a couple of weeks and that’s a major progress in our life now?   
  
That one of the best moments we’ve had in three months, was when I fed my husband a quarter of a buttered scone with jam in our bed and he fell asleep over the tea without anxiety? Who would understand that and why should anyone not going through a darkness reminding of ours no matter the source, know? I didn’t before this and I’d prefered not knowing. And just as Ned needs the distance between us, between him and everyone else participating in the care of him, I need it too. Running around a field, just kicking, dribbling and hearing Morley bark about footwork, defending deep and keeping fucking eyes on the ball.  
  
I can do this again, not as much as before, but twice a week, because my husband no longer requires my presence every time he’s loosing grip of reality. Anne and Mary Read can bring him over the worst part now too and that’s a huge, huge difference.   
  
Charles wants to buy me pizza afterwards and I remember we used to do that sometimes after a practise. That we started it years ago and he was out of money the first time so I paid. And the next time he did. An unspoken deal. One of the things that just comes to be. A habit. Normality. I miss it every second of every day. That Charles remembers I paid the last time, not mentioning all the things he’s helping me and Ned with that would grant him pizzas every week for the rest of his life if we should count them, but starts counting at the last point of normality, is another step back into it.  
  
And with Charles I can hate.  
  
I didn’t know I needed this hate so badly until the first time I took a hike in the forest in weeks. As Ned was in the hospital with Anne and my dad and Elan were cooking in our kitchen. I ran, I cried and I screamed. I kicked innocent trees and I hated.   
  
God, the hate I’ve kept in leash since that morning when they called from the hospital. Before that call, I didn’t know the meaning of the word. I want to go back in time, replacing it everytime I’ve said it with the intention of expressing my disgust or anger for anyone or anything. Want to tell my previous self I know nothing. Pain, anger, disgust, fear and sorrow, I knew them, but not hate.   
  
Now I do and Charles can take it because he knows what it is too. He also knows how it is to do the normal stuff while still boiling with hate and anger. Unlike John, I can’t cope with that by putting up a sunny face over it, while unleashing it by taking control in secret. I can’t act like James, who’s notorious for the cold he shows when he’s hating and, jus tlike his husband, is so good at controlling without getting choked by it. Charles is, in lack of better words, more primitive and he lets me hate without interfering. Without trying to fix it.  
  
I don’t need to talk about it. Not yet. I know what it is I feel and I know why. What I need is being allowed to feel it while doing normal stuff. Because that’s how it is for Ned now. We’re playing normality with what’s left of the life Woodes Rogers, Alice Risden and Charlotte Slevin – yes, I know all their names now – took from us. How could anyone ask me not to feel hate?   
  
I know it’s not healthy. That it’s considered low. Pointless and contraproductive, even, but what else am I supposed to feel about the people who did this to my husband? The plan, because to do this to someone requires some sort of planning, and the targeting, knowing that my love for him, the happiness we shared, was the primar reason he was picked out, is just too cynical. Too malicious for anyone to imagine before it happens. You can’t prepare yourself for that kind of hate.   
  
No one can tell me to be the bigger person here, just as no one can tell Ned he’s to feel grateful for _not_ living in a constant nightmare. _Not_ having your entire life damaged beyond repair from this should not even be a fucking option. My darling man shouldn’t be expected to feel gratitude every time he can keep his food down, or sleep without nightmares. I shouldn’t be happy for not having to fear for his well-being everytime I’m not by his side. And I will keep hating those who forced us to lower our expectations for normality. For making a soccer practise and a pizza with a friend feeling like a luxuary I barely deserve because my husband’s highest level of normality right now is a fucking cup of tea he can’t even finish on his own.


	18. Ned (1st person)

”You look tired, Ned.”  
  
It’s my second meeting with Emily Hudson and yes, I’m fucking tired. Feels like I have lead in my body.   
  
”I am. Which is… weird ’cause I slept all night.”  
”Do you take any meds?”  
”Aye. Don’t remember which ones though, but I get slow from them.”  
”Do you feel helped by them?”  
”Well I… feel less and that’s good, I guess.”  
  
But I get so, so tired too. And I still have to take quite high dozes. I’ve had a small cup of coffee earlier to keep my eyes open now, but my body still feels like it could sink through the ground and down to the centre of the Earth. Even my thin hand lies heavily on Mary Read’s fur. I look at it, scrawny and bloodless, it’s disgusting. Emily puts her notepad down.  
  
”I can see you’re looking a lot at your hands, Ned.”  
”They’re ugly…”  
  
Why did I say that? Because that’s what I’ve been thinking for months now. At first they were blooded and broken, then they became shaky and numb. And skinny, cold and bloodless. I sigh.  
  
”Used to do acrobatics sometimes… with the theatre.”  
”You’re doing theatre?”  
  
Right. I’m so used to people knowing all my doings all the time these days, and knowing what I did before all this. Emily doesn’t, so I tell her. About Tintagel and different plays we’ve put up. Roles I’ve played. Tartuffe in _Tartuffe_ , Friar Laurence in _Romeo and Juliet_ , Crippled Billy in _The Cripple Of Inishmaan_. The last one’s a physically demning role. I like them best.  
  
”Which was the last role you played?”  
”Bob Cratchit, _A Christmas Carol_. At least that was the one… the last one I actually played. I mean, before the Holiday break. Was supposed to start with _The Importance Of Being Earnest_. Oscar Wilde. But we’d only just started lookin’ at it so the roles weren’t setted.”  
  
And I couldn’t participate. I’ve tried not to think too much about the theatre. That I once moved so easily over the stage.   
  
”What do you miss most about the theatre?”  
”The people, of course… T’is a nice group. And getting into a role.”  
  
To move around. Bend and strain my body. When I played Crippled Billy, I left every rehearsal with aching muscles after pushing myself through hours of acting a physically handicapped person. I smile from the memory.  
  
”Me husband… when I did that role, he used to give me massages after every rehearsal with that play.”  
  
Every fucking rehearsal night. Maybe that wasn’t strictly necessairy, but it felt so damn good. I loved his hands on me. Over my shoulders, neck and feet. My hands.   
  
”Had a lot of pain in me hands after that play. Was fidgeting a lot, so Billy…”  
  
Lukewarm eucalyptus oil. Leaning against his chest, his hands around mine, one at the time. But my hands didn’t look like this back then. I was in pain because I’d strained myself and it felt good to get helped. Now I never know when my mind will decide his hands are welcome or not. If they’re his or someone elses.  
  
”Do you miss it? The massages.”  
”Aye.”  
  
I do. I wish… wish more than anything to be touched again. Like before, when his hands were only his and my mind never confused their touch for someone elses. I miss massages. I miss running, jumping and bending. I miss dancing, miss hugging and kissing. I miss sitting on his shoulders, miss waking up in his arms. And I miss hugs from friends too. I miss not having to choose between pain and numbness. I miss fucking eating and don’t even get me started on how much I miss beer.  
  
”Have you always thought your hands were ugly?”  
”No.”  
  
They failed me that night. Fail me every day. My weak, trembling hands make sure I’m always reminded of how little resistance I made and just how much of my previous mobility was taken. I can’t do somersaults or cartwheels anymore. Can’t run, can’t dance, can’t put up any resistance if I’d be attacked again.   
  
I can literally feel it all the time. I see what they did to me every time I look in the mirror. How could that not be ugly?  
  
”It feels like they took your will and your body from you?”  
”Yes…”  
  
I’ve never felt pretty. Not really ugly either, I’ve never cared too much about my looks, but tried to focus on other stuff. But with Billy I felt pretty, for a while. Now that’s ruined too.   
  
”How am I to get strong again when I can’t even fucking eat like normal people?!”  
  
Fidgeting hands in fur. Tears in Mary Read’s golden white fluff. I’m so tired and I just keep crying and crying. Emily Hudson doesn’t try to comfort me, thank god. She’s calm, doesn’t tell me what to think or feel. Doesn’t say it will get better. She just lets me be until I’m cried out, handing me tissues when needed and simply… listens. Even when I don’t say shit, but just bawls.   
  
I’m not afraid of feelings, dammit. If anything, I’ve explored them. I’m doing theatre for fucks sake! I was the one helping Billy to relax in the beginning, when he was still afraid it would end badly. When he was still not sure that he could trust me, because so many other men had said he could but then expected him to change. No, I’m not afraid of having bad feelings, but this fear, this complete fucking helplessnes and disgust doesn’t remind me of anything I’ve felt before.   
  
”You will get through this, Ned.”  
”How do ye know?”  
”Because you’re still trying. You’re here, in this room. You came to the session, you’re talking, you’re not leaving. I know this is extremely difficult and painful for you, but by staying and trying, you’re taking control.”  
”Control? This is fucking control to ye?!”  
  
I’m sweating, crying and shaking. I feel anything but controlled. The only controlled thing in here is Mary Read. Without her, I’d explode.  
  
”Please, I don’t want to…”  
  
Mary Read’s fur aint enough. I need something else to hold onto.  
  
”Ned?”  
”Aye…?”  
”Do you think you would feel better, worse or the same if I take your hand?”  
  
How the fuck should I know?! But Emily sounds so controlled. So relaxed. She’s not affected by my turmoil, my panic doesn’t frighten her the least. I force my left hand to leave the fur, I reach it out.  
  
Her hand is small. Firm, warm and dry. Unlike my sweaty, trembling palm.  
  
”We wont go any further today, Ned, but I would like for you to try and not run away from what you’re feeling in this moment. No matter what it is.”  
”Don’t even… fucking know what I fucking feel!”  
”It is alright not to know, Ned. You feel my hand?”  
”Yeah…”  
  
Even my speak is illogical. I switch back and forth from Irish accent and it makes no fucking sense. But yes, I feel her hand. It’s very steady, but not trying to grab or pull me.   
  
”Is it alright, or do you feel too uncomfortable with me holding your hand?”  
”No, ti’s… okay…”  
  
Wrong word, but I’m not a fast thinker right now.  
  
”You’re doing real good now, Ned, and I know it’s very difficult. Our brain wants nothing more than running from these kind of feelings and in many cases that’s a good thing. It helps us leving dangerous situations, to survive. But with PTSD, with reliving past traumas, it is vital to learn our brain it’s safe to talk about it. That it’s safe to feel out of control.”  
  
Safe. I’ve not felt safe since that night. I’m always scared. When I’m not scared from darkness, flashbacks or panic attacks, I’m scared for them to happening. It’s like being trapped in a neverending loop of fear. Fear of not recovering, of becoming someone else, of loosing Billy. I’m scared of it to happen again, scared of my own body, of what harm I could do myself. But I can’t claw myself now. One hand has a heavy, warm dog over it, the other is held by a woman I’m not yet sure I trust, but I trust my dog and she accepts her.   
  
I stay. I feel completely naked and lost, but I stay.


	19. Billy (3rd person)

It’s better than the panic, for sure. It’s better than silence, better than shutting off. Billy repeats it to himself like a mantra, to not give in to the urge to comfort. He wants the tears to stop. They dig holes in his heart, every single one. No one wants to see or hear his loved one cry like this. For many weeks, Billy thought he wanted for Ned to cry, that it would be easier to handle, but it’s not. Because now he’s always crying but still wont talk.  
  
Billy doesn’t consider it interfering with the therapy, or snooping, to ask Emily Hudson how to handle it. She’s told him not to try and stop it, or get worried. To not feel sorry for Ned, which is easier said than done, or at least not show it. As most people, Ned doesn’t want to upset others with tears, Billy has no problem understanding that. So he feels sorry for his husband in silence.  
  
He’s asked Hal and Elan to leave. Not ordered them, of course, or in an ungrateful way. No, Billy is forever grateful for their support, both here and when they’re back home, and for not having to hide anymore, but he needs space now and they have lives of their own. And he doesn’t have to ask Ned to know he needs the space too. It’s unnerving enough to cry in front of ones husband, PCA, doc and therapist. In front of friends. John, thank God, is very quick to discover when Ned’s about to break and knows how to leave without really showing what he knows, but the rest are not as good at sensing those vibes and a rearrangement in the help from friends and family is needed.  
  
From now on, Ned only sees Billy, Anne, John, Dr. Howell and Emily Hudson. It’s temporary, of course, and their friends and family are more than understanding. Happy too, for their sake and also relieved. It must feel good to have their own time back again. It sure feels good not taking from it as much anymore. Billy tries not to let his head run too fast on the progress road and Ned’s tears are a good help not getting too excited. He’s been crying back and forth ever since the last therapy session a week ago and it’s agony to see and hear. Mrs. Hudson is attending a class and the gap between the last session and the next is a little bigger this time. Billy isn’t sure if he’s grateful or worried about that.  
  
It happens at the most unexpected times, Billy actually thinks there are no unexpected times anymore. Ned cries when waking up, when eating, when panicking, when being calm. He cries himself to sleep, cries in the garden, at the telly, in bed. He cries when seeing himself in a mirror or taking a shower. Sometimes, it makes Billy cry too. In secret, not because he’s ashamed or thinks he has no right to tears, but to not upset Ned. The inner turmoil his husband’s dealing with, forced to live with, is more than three months of suppressed feelings of which Billy only knows a sliver. He doesn’t want to add more to that waking hell.  
  
Worst is when Ned’s falling back and forth between tears and anger and it all implodes in a panic attack.  When he’s crouching while pressing arms to his stomach, as if trying to physically press the turmoil back. His eye is wild and glassy, his fists locked in themselves and sweat is flooding from him. In those moments, no one but Mary Read can touch or even be near him. Billy has to keep distance, must curb the instinct to hold and comfort. He may be there, but not do anything. Yes, it may be better than panic, but it’s the most difficult thing Billy’s ever done, curbing the natural need to make the pain go away. He can’t carry, lead or even hold Ned close in those moments. All he can do is staying put, keeping enough distance without abandon him.  
  
When Billy sees him struggle to keep silent about the names Billy already knows. Names he’s repeating like Arya Stark did with her enemies. Only once dead, a name would be released from that prayer. But Ned never speaks them, nor the other names of his nightmares. He’s been trying to choke them all for a long time and at the moment, they don’t come in forms of vomits, but tears. Sweat. Exhausted, wretched sobs and Billy curses every moment he wanted those tears instead of the vomits and the silence, the scratching and emotional distance.  
  
Wherever Woodes, Charlotte and Alice are, it’s not here for Billy to make them pay, but they’re never leaving his and certainly not Ned’s head.  
  
Crying is better than panic. Tears are better than scratching. Letting it out is better than locking it in. Billy repeats these thoughts as the first days after the release from the hospital goes by like slow, exhausting and neverending steps in swamps and clay. He can take it because he’s not alone. He’s got Anne, eight hours a day on weeks, steady as a rock. He’s got Mary Read, who doesn’t only comfort her daddy, but daddy’s husband as well when needed.  
  
And he’s got John. Every evening he’s there, like a familiar, friendly shadow. He doesn’t interfere except when it’s really needed, rarely talks and is a great company when you’re really too tired to actually have one.  
  
Billy learns not to ask. Not to question, just like Ned has to. Anne comes every morning at eight, Billy leaves for work, still worried as fuck but he has to work, dammit. He gets text updates regularly throughout the day that makes it easier but there’s still worry. What if Ned wont take his meds? What if he tries to harm himself? What if he locks himself inside somewhere and wont open? Billy provides Anne and John with indoor keys to every room, even the bathroom should it be necessairy.  
  
The only good thing with the almost constant crying, is the lack of nightmares. They’re decreasing. A lot. The forth night at home, Ned sleeps almost seven hours straight in their shared bed, while Billy lays awake. He’s watching the scrawny figure in washed-out combats, knitted socks, mitts and hoodie, sleeping in fetus position under the covers with a golden white service dog pressed to his back, providing the comfort a human touch can’t right now.  
  
The nights now make the days barable. Ned’s still scared of the darkness, of his memories, his own mind. But he’s no longer scared of closing his eyes. Panic no longer is his constant companion at night. It comes in the evenings, comes at dawn, but it doesn’t follow him to bed. His mind is simply too exhausted. It’s experiencing the loop of being able to repress and not. Both parts at the same time is just too much for him to control, it’s as if his mind just gives up at a certain point. _Fuck it, you come scare me if you like. Just let me sleep a little first._  
  
Every night when Ned stops fighting the fear of nightmares, are now Billy’s brightest waking moments. Seeing his husband’s body slowly getting less tense, how the hands grip around Mary Read’s fur become looser and the pained expression around the eyes fading a little as the clock’s ticking and the last tears before his husband finally gets some rest, are drowned in Billy’s arms. Unleashed, uncommented, unjudged.


	20. Ned (3rd person)

”I want to be alone!”  
”At least let Maread inside.”  
”Ye fucking deaf? I said alone.”  
  
Calm night, hellish morning. Hellish day and the evening doesn’t seem to get any better. Ned hates all things on two legs drawing breath today. With passion. He’s unable to focus, his thoughts seem cut in half or even chopped to pieces, scattered everywhere. Food hasn’t stayed inside, Billy’s hands are disgusting because everything touching Ned’s disgusting body gets disgusting too. Billy’s voice is tired.  
  
”Alright then. But if she starts scraping you have to let her in.”  
”Leave me the fuck alone, Billy! Just go to hell!”  
  
That breaks the man outside the door. Ned can’t hear it, but he knows it does. The steps leading away over the floorboards. A strained voice telling Mary Read to stay, as if she didn’t know that. Ned hates that everyone seems to know what to do with themselves and him, when he doesn’t know shit.  
  
The mirror on his large wardrobe has been covered for a while now and Ned hates that to. That he needs fucking covers to stand being in his own room. In a sudden movement, he tears the bedsheets sparing him the sight of himself. He’s not met his own reflection in full figure for a long time and it’s not a happy reunion.   
  
”Oh, God…”  
  
He presses a hand to his mouth, choking the shocked whimper. He’s felt his body, sometimes all too well, for many weeks, but he’s not really seen it. The combats hang so low despite the belt, his hipbones visible. He removes the hoodie, hands trembling and then the longsleeved t-shirt and the tank top. He looks like he’s been starving and he has, even if he’s regained a little in weight lately.   
  
The light hairs on his arms are standing in the sudden cold. Ned’s almost constantly freezing, even with clothes. His nipples are hard, the red of them too bright against the rest of his pale torso. Touching them hurts, arousing memories of hands twitching them hard. Is there really no part of his body they didn’t touch? Something neither their bodies nor the cold marked? Is this, this bony, pale figure with the artificial eye looking more alive than the real one staring back what’s left?  
  
_God, he’s so fucking ugly._  
  
This is what Dr. Howell, Emily Hudson and Billy all want him to care about? Be _nice_ to. His body is a temple and Ned’s a fucking atheist. He presses back a whimper and hears scratches and Maread whining outside. He has to let her in but if Billy stands there… Ned takes a deep breath and unlocks the door, opens it just enough to let his furry guardian in, but Billy’s not there. Ned’s left alone, he gets his space and he quickly closes the door again, now with a golden retriever reflecting in the mirror too.  
  
”Ye’re a pretty girl…”  
  
Tail high. She knows when she’s praised and Ned sinks down on his knees, letting the fur warm his transformed frame.  
  
Mary Read doesn’t care about his form. She knows nothing of punds and inches and doesn’t have to struggle to not show she’s concerned or put off. She’s a dog and she doesn’t have an opinion on such things. She has four legs, not two, and so Ned can’t hate her. He holds onto her, feeling how she’s there just for him as she puts her paws on his shoulders, hugging him in her own way to calm the storm.   
  
She’s not put off by his pathetic torso. Ned’s sore nipples is met with soft fur, his tense shoulder with a warm nose. A smooth little head with flappy ears.   
  
Paws. Nose. Fur. Breathe. _You’re at home, Ned. It’s just a mirror, you don’t have to look. It can’t hurt you._  
  
If Mary Read had been in the forest, she’d protected him. Ned feels pathetic for the thought, but it also helps. She would’ve kept him warm in the snow. She’d helped him out of the ditch, barked at the cars and made one stop before Ned started wandering dangerously close to the traffic. She’d felt the danger before he got into the car. Before he swept that drink. It was dark then and it’s dark now. Or very soon will be.  
  
Paws. Nose. Fur. Breathe. Cry? Again? No, he’s sick of tears.  
  
”Ned?”  
  
That voice. So calm and gentle. The warmth and sweetness. The love.   
  
”Sweetheart… Darling… You don’t have to open, but I’m right here if you need me. Please, say something?”  
  
Smooth. Soft words, irresistable tone. Ned used to be helpless to this particular voice. When Billy longs so much for him, he doesn’t even try to mask it. Not one bit. They so rarely fight, the times when it’s gone so far they wont talk to each other, don’t even need one hands fingers. Talking is their air. Not any talking, but theirs.   
  
The memory of how they used to talk, how they used to be silent, just makes Ned cry more. Knowing that after a day at work, maybe a rehersal, he’d come home. Maybe, if it was his cooking night, making dinner while waiting for Billy to come home from a soccer practise, both of them tired from chit chat with costumers, book borrowers, colleagues and brief meetings with acquaintances, shop or café assistants spread throughout the day. Some nights, for some reason always a surprise and always just when needed the most, Billy would buy him flowers.  
  
Roses one night. Chrysanthemums another. Cloves in white, bright blue and dark pink. Lilies sparkling in yellow and orange. _To the best husband in the world. Just because you make me so happy. Because I love you so much.  
  
_ Somehow he always knew. When Ned’s had a frustrating day in one way or another, ready to snap from weariness, already getting irritated with training clothes in the laundry, muddy shoes or something else. The petty things that usually become the last drop after too long time with stress. When Ned’s just a little bit too tired, just barely made it through the day without snapping at the borrowers, Billy showed up with flowers. And whatever Ned’s been ready to get into a completely unnecessairy argue about, he’d forget it the same moment those flowers would show up by the kitchen door. _  
_  
Like fucking magic. Every goddamn time. The irritation, whatever it was, would just vanish and he’d melt. Because it was just too fucking adorable. Too sweet. Impossible not to fall for. The piss day ending  with Billy’s arms strong around him, nosetip nuzzing Ned’s ear. _I missed you today._ And, like a flower, no pun intended, Ned would open up and they’d talk. Sometimes about serious stuff, sometimes just pure nonsense.   
  
A scrape at the floor. Ned looks down. A small piece of paper, folded. Around a bloody After Eight chocolate. He takes it before Mary Read sticks her nose in it and unwraps the paper. _Billy <3 Ned _in black lead.   
  
”Please… babe, please… Just talk to me…”  
  
The plead. The little note. The chocolate. All the small ways back into his heart, ways Ned didn’t know about, that his husband finds.  
  
Chocolate. Thin, minty chocolate. If he doesn’t eat it, it will get sticky and Mary Read could accidently taste it, which is really bad. Chocolate is poison for dogs. And even if it wasn’t, you simply don’t give a token of love, no matter how small, from your husband and feed it to your dog.   
  
_Billy <3 Ned._  
  
With one hand, Ned reaches up to open the door. It was never locked.  


	21. Billy (1st person)

To kiss you. Just a shallow kiss, your lips against mine, the warmth, the space erased. First time I could smell coffee and tobacco. Feel the softness of your short beard. Blushing cheeks, the sparkle in your eye. Kind, lively, teasing. I was in love before that kiss. Before we even met. When we were just names online. When I still didn’t know how much I’d crave your kisses.  
  
The way your lips would search for confirmation. Like a gentle knock on the door. How much closeness did I want? How much was too much for you? Neither of us knew, because we were new to each other. I’d been in love before, many times, but with you all the fears were in the past. Ghosts visiting us, making us wonder if this was too good. Would it last? What if one of us was more fluid and would want more? But even if that had been the case, I doubt I would’ve let go. Some hearts just belong together. I know we would’ve found a way. We will now.  
  
The greatest distance is always in the heart. I crave your bodily closeness most days, need your hugs and kisses, love to spoon you at night. We have our freedom. Sometimes we need solitude. A night, maybe more. Our only rule is that we can’t use our private bedrooms as a way to avoid each other. Needing our space is one thing, creating a distance in heart is another. Before this, we rarely fought, but if we did, we never went to bed without sorting it out. Or, if we were both too tired and just knew we’d only get more pissed if we went on, we’d postpone the actual talk to next day. Rare occasions, thank God. And using our separate bedrooms for that reason was just out of the question. They’re not there to help us avoid each other.  
  
Sometimes I wonder if our sex free life, contrary to what many believe, actually brings us closer to each other. We never have to worry about if we’re synced, if we want different kind of sex or how often. The pressure of keeping sex with a longterm partner interesting is fucking ridiculous. Of course, that’s easy for me who doesn’t want to fuck, but still. It sometimes seems like just a couple of weeks without sex, or not trying out new things often enough, make some people doubt love. Like sex is the ultimate proof you’re close.  
  
Of course, there are people who work that way. John and James are like that. They’re the kind of couple who will sneak away from a party to have a quickie in the nearest closet. Charles and Eleanor too. Idelle and Max don’t even interrupt for phone calls. They answer in the act and I’ve heard you bark at Idelle for picking up phone with Max’s tongue on her clit. _Eww, naked girls! Gross!_ _Call me when ye’re decent! Jaysus!_ Since none of us are prude, I always crack at you sounding like the gayest moral police ever.  
  
I pisses me off, but also makes me sad when people think asexual means being damaged. That we long for sex like sexual people, but can’t make it work. That we’re abstinent because we’re unable to perform, unattractive, shy, insecure, prude. That we call ourselves asexual like a made up excuse for our lack of sex. Or that there’s some kind of moral or religious reason behind it. Because not wanting it at all and be just fine, is somehow an impossible combination. We’re an anomali, rejecting something most people want and a lot of people want but can’t have the way they wish. And at the same time, sex is seen as something low. Sex without love is not as good. The way people are judging their own and others sex life, something that’s supposed to be the best fucking thing ever, is beyond me.  
  
Going a day without kissing you always makes me long twice as much for our next kiss. If one of us is away from home over night, I miss our kisses. Shallow ones on your hair, your cheek. The softness of your lips in a closemouthed one. Morning kisses you plant on my chest, waking up in my arms. Sneaking my arms around you when you’re making coffee, nibbling your ear, your gorgeous neck. Turning you around and lift you to sit on the countertop, so we can kiss without bended necks and tiptoes. God, I miss it. Miss it so much I could fucking cry and scream.  
  
I’m not touching you now. Not kissing you. I just sit on the floor in your room, waiting for you to allow me closer. This is close. Letting me see you like this. It’s your room, your personal space and we don’t enter each others private bedrooms without invitation. Just like we don’t touch without one.  
  
You’re half-naked and I know you wont believe me if I tell you you’re beautiful. Not while you’re in this loop of thoughts and feelings. But you are. I’ve never wanted you any different. I adore every inch of you, always have. I don’t see ugliness now, I see struggles and pain. Unfair fucking pain that makes your once so lively and strong body fight itself. Of course you hate it. You’re in war with your own body, why wouldn’t you hate?  
  
Yes, why wouldn’t you? I do. Hate. Not your body, but those who marked it. They used you for hours, the doc had to stitch you. When they removed the stitches, they had to put you to sleep first. You’re still on painkillers. Still taking pills for nausea, headache, muscle pain, insomnia and panic attacks. For your digestive system. You leave the therapy sessions exhausted, sometimes with migraine. Your body simply wont relax. Wont let you rest and that drives you mad.  
  
Your feet in knitted socks. Blue and red. They hurt too. I swallow.  
  
”You want a foot rub?”  
  
You lift your head from it’s resting position on your scrawny knees.  
  
”What?”  
”You want a foot rub?”  
  
There’s just enough distance between us to allow you putting your feet on my lap. All you have to do is stretching your legs out. I close my eyes, leaning at the wall, waiting. Mary Read, God bless her, sits close to you and you start leaning just a little against her. Opening up, slowly, slowly.  
  
It takes an eternity before you answer, but I’m a fucking master in the art of waiting by now. I’m starting to feel a bit stiff in my own body by the time you’re stretching your leg out. Mary Read is laying on your lap by then and you stroke her fur.  
  
I move very slowly, sit down on my knees and lift your right foot onto my lap. At first, I just hold it between my hands. Despite the knitted socks, you’re cold and your foot very stiff. I don’t want it to hurt so I warm it like dad used to when I’d been out ice skating and my feet had gotten all numb. I lift my cardigan and put your foot to my body for warmth. You’re not protesting, you’re closing your eyes and I stop myself from sighing out of relief when you lift your left foot onto my lap.  
  
I get to warm your adorable feet. Yes, they’re a bit sweaty now, but they’re still fucking adorable. And in pain. I’ve not had them in my lap like this since your last play. I’ve missed this almost as much as kissing you. To be allowed to ease your tension. I start rubbing very softly at first and you make a grimaze.  
  
”Harder.”  
”You sure?”  
”Yes, I’m fucking sure.”  
  
Normally, I’d stopped if you snap at me, but I keep working, a little harder as you asked. I bend your feet back and forth, stretch your toes, squeeze your heel and pad. I can literally feel some of the tension bleed from you, how you’re letting me just a little closer.  
  
”I’m sorry… for… for being like this…”  
”It’s not your fault.”  
  
I sigh.  
  
”Ned, you realise I’ll never stop saying that until you believe me, right?”  
”Why are ye not angry?”  
”What?”  
  
I stop kneading and just stare at you. But no, you’re not kidding. I laugh.  
  
”You don’t think I’m angry? I’m… I’m fucking _furious_ , Ned, but not with you! I wake up thinking of murderering my ex every single day, you know that? In detail. You refuse to talk to me about it. About him and the two other fucking rapist cunts, but it doesn’t mean I don’t think about them all the fucking time and you know what’s stopping me? You. Me.  _Us_.”  
  
Mary Read should get worried, but you just keep patting her, calmly. Now I’m crying. And yelling.  
  
”I can’t imagine what you went through that night. And you don’t know what it’s like getting that phone call… I’ve asked myself a thousand times what I could’ve done to prevent it. Should I’ve come to pick you up? Stayed up waiting and calling you like some control freak? Could I’ve somehow forseen that my ex would be a rapist and let you pay for me not wanting him?”  
  
I wipe my face.  
  
”I’ve never been so fucking angry in my entire life, Ned. I _hate_ him, hate them all and I want them dead! Not letting me in wont change that, you know. Everytime you shut me out or hurt yourself, I just hate them more. It’s never you, Ned… _Never you_ … Even if you don’t talk about the rape with me ever again, I’ll never stop hating them. I can’t just force myself to pretend it doesn’t hurt me too. All they’ve taken, what they’re still taking… You are not to blame for this, Ned. It’s not your fault. You hear me, babe? _It’s not your fucking fault!_ ”  
  
Shouldn’t yell. Shouldn’t upset you. I’m burying my face in my hands, crying worse than I can remember ever doing. It just wells out and I can’t seem to stop. Can’t restrain myself this time. The weight of all the worry, hate, fear and sorrow just comes crashing down on me and you’re doing something I’d never dream you of doing since the rape. You straddle my thighs, put your arms around me and pull me close.  
  
The shock – because that’s what it is – makes me stop crying like you’ve pushed a button. Your tense body is shivering, I can feel your pulse beat wildly against my throat and I stop breathing when you press yourself flush to me. Your heart beats so fast underneath your damp, goosbumped skin.Your teeth are rattling and you hold me like I’m your one and only safety net.  
  
”D-don’t cry, muppet…”  
  
Or maybe you are mine. Your body is so small and scrawny, weak and in pain, but I feel like I’m the one in need for support now. That it’s my body that can’t hold up, my heart and mind being shattered to pieces. Is this anything like the helplessness, the despair you feel? If it is, then who am I to talk about mine? What right do I have to ask for support from you, when your feet barely hold you up? You sigh.  
  
”If I talk I…”  
  
I’m not answering. Your voice is so small, so strained, I know every word is lead in your mouth.  
  
”Ye… ye must understand… I don’t want to. Shut ye out. But I can’t talk. Not about that.”  
”Say it.”  
”What?”  
”What it is you can’t talk about. There is a word for it.”  
”Please don’t do this…”  
”We already think it. It’s in your medical record. It’s in the police rapport. I saw it on the fucking posters as soon as I went outside the hospital. I… I heard it on fucking news…”  
  
Before someone turned them off or removed me from the tv. From the paper stands. I was numb then. The word didn’t stick. Somehow my mind managed to forget the word as soon as I didn’t read or heard it. And everytime I did, it felt like someone was trying to carve my heart out.  
  
”Rape… Don’t make me talk about… the rape.”  
  
You’re whispering, but I hear you as clear as if you’d been on stage, saying lines to be heard all the way down to the row closest to exit.  
  
The world isn’t ending and I knew it wouldn’t. It’s you who must learn to trust your own voice, your words again. Your body is a heavy, so very heavy weight on me now and I take off my cardigan to hang over your shoulders. Mary Read has been by your side this whole time, like a silent guardian inivisibly chained to you and I make room for her, so she can lay across my legs, firmly pressed to your back. I hold my hands still on your shoulders now, non of us are crying, it’s as if we’re finally out of tears. My lips are dry against your damp neck.  
  
”I wont.”  
  
I can feel by the way you go limp against my chest, that you trust me. Me being weak didn’t drag you down, didn’t pull us further apart. And I realise my anger serves as a confirmation of yours. My hate doesn’t have to take over or press your own down if I show it. It reminds you, my sweet husband, of something you know, but this nightmare made you forget about. That no matter if you allow me to touch you or not, we’re always, _always_ parts of each other. And sooner or later, a distance we don’t choose ourselves out of own free will, is bound to decrease. For if not, what’s the point in promising to love someone to death, if we let someone or something else tear us apart?


	22. Ned (1st person)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Note: I've changed Ned's and Billy's ages, for reasons that has to do with a planned follow-up to this story, taking place some years after. This chapter, Ned turns 34 and Billy is 29 (and will turn 30 in July). I've changed this in all the previous pieces in both "Down Foreverdark Woods Trail" and "Aces Of Spades And Hearts". It's really not changing anything in the actual events.

On the good side of exhaustion, I’m incapable of doing myself any harm. And I’m sleeping most nights. Fucking stupid expression… _On the good side…_ Is there one? I’ve gone from distant, hostile and silent to clingy and whiny. At least that’s how it feels. I have absolutely no words to speak now. I just need him close at all times and I turn completely miserable when he’s not. One of the things I was afraid of happening if I talked, has indeed happened. I can’t stand not having him near. No one else will do. We’ve tried but I just break. I wail like a three-year-old if my husband leaves my sight and not even Maread can soothe me.  
  
Apart from that, I guess I’m just fucking fine.  
  
Emily Hudson says it’s normal, but to her everything seems to be. Apparently so much of my behavior, so many of my feelings are common with PTSD and Dr. Howell says the same. The shock, the denial, the fear that talking about it will make me relive it or make more bad things happen. Shame is another powerful tool to silence people.   
  
But the worst of all, are the flashbacks. I can’t see a movie taking place in winter. If there’s a winter’s night scene, I start shaking. Can’t see bar scenes either. Anything that smells from cinnamon is banished from our home and Billy has removed all my Behemoth stuff to his room, because I would most likely not only break from it, but also destroy it in a fit and then end up even more miserable.  
  
I see them while awake and need a lot of meds to keep them away from my dreams. I hate it, but they also help me not to scratch and bite myself. I can be at home without the fear of doing myself harm. Maread can’t stop the flashbacks, but she makes sure I’m never alone with them and her presence makes them a little easier. Billy says the attacks seem to end quicker the earlier I can make myself hold her and not just have her paws on me. That depends on how much my hands are fidgeting, not to mention how receptive I am for information.  
  
Anne makes signs. Some kind of plastic laminated pictures, one of them picturing me holding Maread in a sane moment. When I get an attack that hard but can’t make myself hold her, Anne or Billy will hold that card up, and then one where I have her paws on my shoulders. Visible steps when I can’t listen or talk. Pictures of reality to bring me back faster.  
  
On the good side of exhaustion, I don’t harm myself physically. Instead, my fucking memory harms my mind. I can’t even go to therapy sessions if Billy’s not in the waiting room.   
  
Yes, the good side… The bad one, as if the flashbacks weren’t enough, is the anger. Some days I feel like I’m choking on it and I take it out on innocent people and furniture, screaming at the living things and punching the dead, constantly afraid I’ll end up hitting Billy or Anne. Or even Maread. I may be weak, but it’s truly scaring to feel the sudden strenght I seem to get when that anger comes rushing. I’m never prepared for it and on the morning after one of those nights, when I wake up with muscles cursing me and the guilt and shame burning inside, I see Billy in my room, hanging up a punching bag in the roof.  
  
”Good morning, hon.”  
”What are ye doing?”  
”Saving our possessions and cheek bones, I hope.”   
  
That’s enough to make me see red and I scream at him to get the fuck out and throw the first thing I get my hands on, one of my pillows, at him that he sends back with an elegant kick. He’s a football player, after all.    
  
”You know it’s Saturday, so Anne doesn’t come today.”  
”Who’s the fucking guard today, then?”  
”No one. It’s just you, Maread and your favourite husband.”  
”I have more than one?”  
”If you do, tell him breakfast’s done in ten. Happy birthday, sweetheart.”  
  
The fuck? Is it May already? When did I turn 34 and why was I not informed?! Is this… a _birthday gift_? This punching bag? Mary Read is nuzzling my arm as I stare after my husband and then I grab my phone from the nightstand.   
  
Holy shite. It _is_ my bloody birthday so now I’m a 34-year-old wreck instead of a 33-year-old one. Happy fucking birthday, Ned, and congrats on another awesome year. It can only get better! Since I began it with yelling at my husband and now crying in the pillow I threw at him like some fucking toddler, it’s hardly one of my best starts of a new year. But I do feel old.  
  
Maread climbs up in the bed and looks at me. She’s the only good thing this year and I wouldn’t have her if it wasn’t for the worst thing ever happened to me. No, I’m unfair now. She’s not the only good thing. The only good _new_ thing thou. Am I ungrateful for thinking more about the things taken from me, than all the help I’m getting? Help I wouldn’t have had wasn’t it for rich, caring friends with connections. Some days, like this one, I wish they’d not helped me because it’s a waste of awesome help on someone who’s too fucking screwed up to use it.  
  
My husband’s giving me a punching bag to help me stop hurting myself. A year ago I got a bracelet I’ve not used since it was locked away to stop me using it to hurt my wrist. It takes more than ten minutes before I’m done crying and I’m more grateful than Billy could possibly know, that he didn’t pretend this day would feel any different.


	23. Billy (3rd person)

He’s made smoothies with raspberries and peaches. Soft-boiled eggs and tea. Ned’s reaction this morning wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been and now he’s coming down for breakfast with Mary Read in tow. Billy places the high glasses on the table, for once they’ll have the same kind of food. The only difference is the nutritional powder added to Ned’s portion. This smoothie used to be a favourite and honestly, Billy’s not sure if Ned will drink or even taste it, or smash it in the wall.   
  
He’s wearing one of his old Henley shirts, the black jeans Idelle changed for him and knitted socks. Bags under reddish eyes.   
  
”I’m sorry for being such an ass… Ye didn’t deserve that…”  
  
Billy simply reaches his hand out and then they’re one again, at least for a while. He’s holding Ned for long minutes, stroking the loose hair and scrawny shoulders, keenly aware of that it’s unusual to be close like this these days. Ned’s not clingy or distant, just sad and tired. Painfully aware of just how bad this year has been so far. Fearing it wont get any better. But it fucking will.  
  
”Don’t think about it, sweetheart.”  
”Aye, I will. Just ’cause I’m not meself, doesn’t mean I get to throw stuff at ye.”  
”It was a pillow… and I kicked it back. Quite elegantly, I might add.”  
  
Ned gives a short, weary laughter.   
  
”How the fuck did I end up with a football player…”   
”No matter how, he’s very, very happy you did and wouldn’t want to live a day without you. This football player is would be lost without you.”  
”Even now?”  
”Even now.”  
”Wont throw more stuff at ye. I’ve been an eejit.”  
”Yeah, but you’re my idiot and I love you. You forgot about what day it is, right?”  
”Completely. And had I known, I’d not wanted to…”  
”Celebrate?”  
”No. I really don’t want to.”  
”Then we don’t.”  
”Thank ye…”  
  
So relieved for not being celebrated by husband, friends and family. Billy thanks his lucky star it’s still early and no one’s called or texted yet. If Ned sees his Facebook wall, he’ll probably smash the laptop. Not that he’s using his computer these days. Billy kisses his hair.  
  
”Don’t go out on Facebook today, alright?”  
”Why would… Oh. Right. Should turn me phone off too.”  
”People will only get worried. If you want to, I could make a mass text telling you don’t want to celebrate. I mean, if you don’t answer we’ll only end up with calls.”  
  
Ned sighs.  
  
”True. And thanks… for the punching bag.”  
”It’s for saving your precious Yellow Goat.”  
”We’re both ever grateful.”  
  
So is Billy now. Ned’s mood shifts quickly, but at least it switches as fast to the good as to the bad. Maread has her head on her daddy’s right thigh, knowing she’s needed. Ned scratches her head.  
  
”Should let ye stretch yer legs a bit, girl.”  
  
Billy looks carefully at them and takes a sip from his smoothie.  
  
”We could go to a field somewhere. Play some catch with her.”  
”Yeah… maybe we could…”  
  
Ned looks at her dark, calm eyes and bends down to nuzzle her because she’s indeed a good girl.   
  
”Wanna go out and play with yer daddies, Maread?”  
  
Billy smiles.  
  
”I’m her daddy too now?”  
”Ye’d be a great one, ye know.”  
  
The comment is not about Maread. Or dogs. And it’s been said before.   
  
”Fiona said that too. When she came to visit.”  
”Of course she did.”  
”Why of course?”  
”Cause ye would’ve been a great da.”  
  
Billy laughs.  
  
”What do you mean _would’ve_? Did we decide on not having kids?”  
”No, but it’s not as if I’m a parent material.”  
  
Ned says it as a matter of fact and Billy swallows.  
  
”Me neither. Not now. I like being co-daddy to this girl.”  
”She’s our savior… _Co-daddy_ , though?”  
”Daddy’s husband sounds better?”  
”God no!”  
  
Smile. _That_ smile. The warm, slightly teasing one, that still makes Billy blush. And the timing couldn’t be more wrong, but a very small part of his imagination can’t help but placing another kind of creature in his husband’s arms. One day, maybe, if things keep going in the right direction…   
  
It’s all too easy for the mind to slip away too far, but who could blame Billy for that? Ned has chosen some of his favourite clothes this morning and he’s drinking his smoothie, taking small mouthfuls of his egg. It’s slow, but goes unusually easy since the moment they started talking about Maread. Focusing on her makes Ned, if not happy so at least relaxed and Billy gets an idea.  
  
”You know it’s pretty muddy on that field. We’ll probably have to bathe her later.”  
”I’ll do that.”  
  
Oh, this is just perfect. Ned’s once again focused on his four legged companion and her now wiggling tail, because she knows her daddy is feeling better now than when he woke up. Billy gives Ned the plastic cup with meds for this morning and he swallows them down with the last of his smoothie, still looking at Maread. If people now just do as they’ve promised and stay away, Ned’s thirtyfourth birthday may not be a disaster after all.


	24. Ned (3rd person)

The weather sucks and it’s perfect. Not many people would go out willingly on this greyish, drizzly day, Saturday or not. The field is muddy, the sky clouded and it feels more like March than May. Mary Read is the happiest dog ever, chasing a tennis ball in the dirt and both Ned’s and Billy’s shoes and pants look like they’ve been digging ditches. Ned throws the ball over and over, Mary Read’s fur will have to be washed with the garden water spout when they get home and her daddy has a little colour on his cheeks.   
  
”Good girl! C’mere.”  
  
The not very white golden retriever never forgets who to listen to and Billy, who’s secretly watching over them a little extra, notices with visible relief that she doesn’t forget her main task. The muddy tennis ball may be funny, but the second she notices Ned’s getting tired, she returns with her toy, drops it by his feet and instead of looking at him to keep throwing, she nudges his calfe, like she’s making sure he can still stand. Billy smiles at them.   
  
”Tea?”  
”That would be nice, hon.”  
  
Not being home is a great idea. Billy has brought a thermos with rosehip tea, a jar of honey and their old canvas cover and a camp mattress in his backpack and they find a large, flat stone to sit down at. Ned spreads out the mattress while Billy rolls the cover over them like a large cowl. Mary Read gets a towel and some dog biscuits because she’s indeed a good dog.   
  
When sitting down, Ned can feel his legs are more tired than he thought, his knees hurt a bit but he doesn’t give a fuck now. He wipes Maread’s fur and paws and she lays down with her head on his thigh. Billy pours tea in plastic cups, steam swirling through the chilly air. Ned strokes some loose hairs from his face and remakes his scruffy hairbun.  
  
”This was a good idea.”  
”Yeah.”  
  
Billy hands him the tea with a little smile. It’s nice with something warm and Ned even has a little colour on his cheeks. But he’s unsteady and Billy places himself behind him, as a human support.   
  
”Maybe you strained yourself too much.”  
”Probably. Not regretting it, though.”  
  
The air is fresh and they’re on their own, together. Away from people on a safe place. It’s not dark, Ned’s not alone and right now Billy’s strong, broad torso doesn’t make Ned feel weak. He’s not comparing himself to his husband in this moment, just enjoying the closeness. The fresh air and privacy. People may walk by, of course, but Ned doesn’t care. He entwines his fingers with Billy’s, feels the warmth from Maread on his legs and closes his eyes.   
  
Billy’s left hand is nestled in Ned’s hair, his nose buried in the tangles. Ned can feel the heartbeats against his weak back. Life pounding into him, knocking softly but determined on the sore bones. _Let me in. Please, let me in. I’m not intruding, don’t you see? I’m waiting for you to let me in and I’ll keep knocking until you open up or tell me to leave and never come back. I’ll never break in, but as long as you don’t ban me from your life, I’ll keep knocking and waiting, waiting and knocking, until you let me in. Your heart used to be mine too. Is it still? Do you still want mine, because it’s right here, waiting… I’m not trying to intrude, I just miss you so, so much…  
  
_ ”Why, Billy?”  
”Why what, hon?”  
”Why don’t ye just…”  
”Give up and leave?”  
  
Billy’s voice is low, calm and neutral. It doesn’t brim with emotions today, but it’s not at all cold or indifferent either. Ned feels a soft kiss on his neck.  
  
”Short answer: because I love you and don’t want to live without you.”  
”And the long?”  
”When I asked you to marry me, I didn’t do it just because of the fluffy stuff, you know. I mean… life literally sucks sometimes, that’s just how it is. I don’t feel like I’m choosing to stay or not, Ned. I already chose that when I bought that ring, chose it again when I proposed and again at our wedding. And I’m not regretting any of those choises for a second. I’m yours, you know. And who knows… One day you might have to carry me around because of some shit neither of us wanted to happen, and I know you would. Marriage… and love, that’s some serious shit to me.”  
  
Ned swallows and turns his face into the crook of Billy’s neck. The short stubble is scraping against him, the pulse steady and calm. _Safe._ The discrete smell of after shave and soap. Lips in his hair.   
  
”Miss kissing ye…”  
  
There’s so much more he’d like to say, to answer the declaration of love he’s received again, but this single wish it what comes out. The small noise leaving Billy’s lips confirms that answer’s enough and maybe it’s the surroundings, the feeling of being released from their usual reality in this little green and grey space of privacy that opens up a sliver of ease.  
  
His husband’s kiss is soft, boardering on restrained desperation and Ned opens his eyes, the blind and the seeing, taking in the face just lost in so much longing it’s impossible to resist. Ned’s tense lips give in and he lets himself loose again, lets the man close for a moment, tasting and feeling him. When Billy pulls back with a strained whimper, Ned takes his face between his hands, nuzzling his nose.  
  
”Don’t stop… Who knows when I... Fucks sake, c’mere!”  
  
They’re pressing their lips together again, both of them just too desperate for the sweetness they’ve missed so much, to really care if it will suddenly become too much. They’re kissing like it’s their last chance, holding onto each other for dear life, tasting lips again and again until they’re sore and have to separate to catch breath.    
  
It’s the taste of normality, the anything but ordinary normality it’s so easy to take for granted. For some panting, windy minutes under the canvas, it’s only them again. A seamless unity of their own choosing, all-consuming and entirely sweet.


	25. Billy (1st person)

I’ve discovered something new that probably isn’t new at all. It’s my ears that hear things differently, just as my eyes read certain words, headlines and stories in a new way. Same kind of stories, same words and the same jokes I never thought was funny in the first place but didn’t protest about either, and now I get a small taste of what I know women are facing, but to me it’s new.  
  
Should I feel ashamed? For not paying attention until it concearned my personal life? Until it happened to someone I love? Probably, but I’m only human. And my husband, who shouldn’t feel any shame what so ever, is consumed by it. This morning, I found him crouching, crying in the bathroom.  
  
On the surface, Ned seems to make progress and he is. Me showing myself ”weak”, for a lack of better word, carved out the opening I’ve been trying to find for months now. Only I promised him not to talk about it. Or, to be more specific, I promised not to _make_ him talk about it. That choise of word worries me. It indicates that I’m the tool he needs to open up, only he asks me not to. The lack of power he’s feeling… Yes, in a way I feel powerless too, but it’s not comparable. It’s not the same thing. My new associations with certain words, looks, smells, colours and touches, are my own and they don’t make me wake up screaming, they don’t change my sense of reality. They don’t make me scared to death of myself.  
  
I’m at work most days, unless he’s had a truly horrible night. Then I stay at home half a day or a whole depending on how bad it’s been. I’m lucky to have such an understanding boss. And good insurances. Yes, at least I don’t have to worry about our economy, even if it will take years to pay off the gifts I insist on seeing as loans from our friends. Because I hate to be in dept. Hate to depend on others. Hal tried his best to assure me I wasn’t a burden and I managed to get rid of the worst sense of fear for not being grateful enough, but it lies deep. The feeling that you don’t really belong. That the people you live with, actually don’t have to care. They’re doing it because they’re gratious enough to open their home for you. When I came to Hal, I was ten years old and developed a binge eating disorder.  
  
Yes, I’ve been weak as fuck. Felt like nothing but trash. People take a look at me and assume I’m ultimate health on two legs. The kind of guy that’s been doing sports since kindergarten, never had a distorted body image, real love life problems or attachement issues.  
  
Dad wasn’t told I was more or less starved in the previous foster home. I remember him saying I looked very scrawny when I first met him, but the social worker said it was the age. Ten-year-olds grow fast and I was an unusually tall kid. Only I was growing in one direction and shrinking in the other. I managed to restrain myself for a week before I cleared the freezer. Hal, as I called him then, had a shelf full of bread, homemade cookies, ice cream and berries I’d set my eyes upon and I was always hungry. Always.  
  
It’s strange how the brain sometimes just refuses to understand when things are changed to the better. One think it would be relieved, but no. I always cleared my plate, but made sure to eat slowly. Hal complimented my good table manners, happily unaware of how I’d learned them. I was eating in absolute terror, because for three years I’d never known if I would be allowed to finish a meal or not. Food was never something I could count on and certainly not sweet stuff. When I was given a cookie for dessert, I ate it so slowly, Hal thought I didn’t like it and said I didn’t have to finish it.  
  
I wanted it. It was a lovely, homemade shortcrust pastry with real butter, dipped in chocolate and I’d never tasted anything so good in my life. I forced myself to finish it quicker, in case my new foster dad would think I was ungrateful and decide to take it from me. That was the fifth day of my first week with him.  
  
For almost three days, I thought of nothing but the cookie and mealtimes were torture. When Hal asked me if I was full, I always said I was. I cleared my plate and he was pleased with me. It was a new thing, not being scolded at by the dinner table. It was a new thing not being sent to bed without dinner. But the hunger was the same. I had more and better food to eat than ever before, but I was never full, never dare to accept seconds and definately not ask for it myself. My mind always worried. What if this will end? What if I’m not a good kid and he’ll take away the cookies? No one likes a greedy boy.  
  
The third night, I couldn’t handle it anymore. I lay awake and when I was sure Hal was asleep, I snuck downstairs to the kitchen. One cookie wouldn’t be missed.  
  
Hal found me twenty minutes later, throwing up all over the kitchen rug. My tiny stomache couldn’t handle years of built up hunger, several boxes of cookies, frozen bread, cinnamon rolls and raspberries. I was terrified, absolutely certain I’d get the belt on my bare ass and never see another piece of this delicious food again. Maybe I’d even be sent back. Nevertheless, I’d blew it and showed what kind of trash I was.  
  
I still remember how careful he was when lifting me from the floor, despite the vomits all over my pajamas. He carried me to the bathroom, held a hand on my forehead and had me drink salted water so I could throw up the rest before he helped me shower. I had terrible stomach pains and cried, just waiting for the beating I was sure to come, but instead I got a clean pajamas and was carried to Hal’s bed along with a bottler of warm water to ease the pains. I said I was sorry and he just held me in his arms and let me cry enough to calm down a little. Then he talked.  
  
Yes, it was naughty to take cookies without asking and yes, eating at night when I was supposed to be in bed was naughty, but he wasn’t angry. I wasn’t going to be punished because I’d not been naughty. Sometimes we do things we really didn’t mean to and he thought that was the case now. If I’d been naughty, he said, I would’ve just taken the cookies and sneak back to bed _. You weren’t naughty, Billy, you were hungry. But it’s not nice to your tummy to eat that much so fast, as you noticed. It’ll protest and you’ll feel sick and get stomachache. A cookie or two are nice as a dessert, but twenty cookies at one am is a really bad idea._          
  
I wasn’t punished, I was given comfort and understanding. I was never diagnozed with binge eating disorder, but Hal somehow understood and even when it kept happening, even when I was caught stealing food once, he never punished me. He explained to the supermarket manager that I had a problem with food because I’d gone through a time of starvation once. Instead of getting more scolded at by the manager, I got sympathetic looks and kind words. When Hal took me home, I still thought I was to get whooped by his belt, but no.  
  
Hal made a fire in the drawing room, prepared some snack and when I’d calmed down and finished the sandwich in a normal pace, we talked. Or rather, he asked and listened, while I tried to answer. After a while I cried a lot, but I wasn’t as scared. I was ashamed, but the more we talked, the less shame I felt.  
  
Still, it took years and years before I was free from it. And on the surface, I went from a scrawny kid to a lanky but sporty teenager and at sixteen I started going to the gym. I know dad has pictures of me from my first years at home, but I don’t want to see them. Not because I look extremely thin, because I don’t, but I look dead serious. It’s a very restrained and serious kid and the first picture of me where I’m smiling, is from a junior football cup my team won. We’re all having small medals around our necks and in the group photo I still look dead serious, but there’s also a picture of dad holding an arm around me, looking like proudest father of the year and I’m holding the medal up, smiling. Dad has it framed on the wall and I have a copy of it too, smaller, in my bookshelf.  
  
Hal loved me from first day, but some wounds stay. They may not hurt like before, but sometimes they itch and it’s hard not to scratch. I know all too well how it is to feel weak, both bodily and in mind. I’m very healthy since many years, long before I met Ned, but I will probably never see food or feel hunger in an entirely normal way. For a long time I thought I was alone, at least among guys, to have issues with food. And the more muscular I got, the more I realised I was supposed to feel confident – and that a lot of people were convinced I had no idea what it felt like to have body issues. Or weak.  
  
I’m not gonna pretend I cared much before Ned got raped. I’m not an angel and despite unwelcomed touches, I’ve not really felt threatened by them. I’m six foot five with huge muscles and I’ve never ever feared rape. I mean, men can’t get raped, if we’re not in some kind of high risk prison and get attacked in the shower by a gang. Right? That’s what we’re told, more or less.  
  
Just as starvation changed food for me once, Ned getting raped has changed what I see, hear and focus on. Jokes, certain words, looks from mostly men on women. I see the reversed too, but the men are more obvious. More shameless and loud about it.  
  
When I see that, I want to tell them exactly how it feels like when you can carry around your husband on one shoulder with ease, but not drag him out from the darkness. When he’s physically near me, right here on our bathroom floor, and my arms aren’t strong enough to lock the memories and nightmares out. Because one man and two women thought they had the right to treat him like nothing but trash. And to some people, that’s a joke.


	26. Ned (1st person)

What if I’d not left my drink unattended? What if I’d not had a boner? What if… Billy doesn’t want me to think about that, gets angry when I do but it’s still there and I can’t get it out of my fucking head. It’s never fucking silent in there anymore and I don’t know what to listen to. Or which sounds, smells or colours that belongs to the forrest and the now.  
  
”Which smells did you notice that night?”  
”I… I don’t know.”  
”If you want to, we can try to find out together, Ned.”  
  
I don’t want to, but I somehow know now they wont stay away just because I try to forget. I nod.  
  
”Okay.”  
”Alright. Remember, any time you want to stop, you just say so and we’ll stop. I will count to three and when I come to one, you’ll come back here, out of your memory. You understand?”  
”Aye.”  
”Remember, any time you want to stop, we’ll stop.”  
  
Emily always says that and I fucking hate that it works. That I trust her because of a few words. I hold onto the chair. Maread has her head on my thigh, keeping me attached to reality.  
  
”Close your eyes, Ned, and take a deep breath.”  
  
_Breathe, Ned. Breathe.  
_  
”It’s January 20th, a Saturday and it’s ten am in the morning. What are you doing?”  
”I’m… the usual on a weekend.”  
”Where are you?”  
”Home.”  
”Are you alone?”  
”No. Billy’s there too. We’re... I’m doin’ breakfast.”  
”What are you making?”  
”Boiled eggs and yoghurt. Coffee. Billy’s in the shower.”  
”What are you thinking about when you make breakfast?”  
”Behemoth. The show.”  
”How are you feeling when you’re making breakfast, thinking about the show?”  
”I’m... happy. The singer, Nergal, had cancer some years ago and... I’ve not seen Behemoth in a while so it feels... kinda’ special.”  
”Is it a favourite band?”  
”Aye.”  
”So, you’re making breakfast for yourself and your husband and you’re feeling happy because you’re going to see a favourite band. It feels special, because their singer has been ill in cancer and he made it through. You’re going to see a favourite band you were at risk of never seeing again in that set-up and you’re happy.”  
”Uh-huh.”  
”What are you wearing?”  
”Black jeans and...”  
  
_Breathe, Ned. Breathe._  
  
”It’s alright, Ned. We can stop at any moment, but if you want to try a bit further, we keep going. I’m not leaving you on your own.”  
  
Paws. Nose. Fur.   
  
”A t-shirt… _The Satanist_ print. And knitted socks.”  
”It’s a cold morning?”  
”Aye. Ti’s been snowing during the night… Billy has me cardigan with’im when he comes down. I… I always forget it.”  
  
He’s draping it around me from behind, burying his nose in my neck. _I’m gonna miss you tonight._ I smile at him, asking if I should stay home without meaning it and he knows I’m just teasing _. No fucking way._ _Just don’t forget your beanie this time and end up with a damn otitis again._  
  
”He’s worried about you?”  
”No… not really. Forgot me beanie once and got otitis. He’s teasing me.”  
  
He’s about to see friends later and I’m to hook up early at Ben’s and Jacob’s place. Billy’s dropping me off at their place on his way to the gym. Usually he doesn’t take the car to the gym, but it’s really cold today and he want’s to give me a ride.  
  
”I’m promising to call’im later and he’s kissing me. Then I leave the car.”  
”How does Billy look this morning?”  
”Uhm… as usual. Pretty. He’s always pretty…”  
”Do you remember what he’s wearing?”  
”White t-shirt. Jeans. A knitted jumper.”  
”And that’s the last time you see your husband before you wake up at the hospital?”   
”Yes…”  
”When he’s driving off?”  
”Yes…”  
”What’s the last thing you’re saying to each other?”  
”I… I don’t remember…”  
”Do you recall any particular smells?”  
  
My chest is too tight again, my eyes are brimming over and my voice sounds pathetic.  
  
”Laundry soap. Billy’s perfume… Calvin Klein’s _Escape_. Toothpaste… Car. And snow.”  
  
He’s kissing me long and warm, he’s newly shaved and soft against my skin. _God, I miss you already. Promise me you have an awesome night now, hon, and give Ben and Jacob a kiss from me. See you tomorrow.  
  
_ We’re both so oblivious, we have no idea. It’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair. Less than twentyfour hours later our lives are shattered, my Behemoth t-shirt ripped and all I can taste is the iron from my own blood, all I can smell is the raw, icy air and the only vision before me is night. Black, almost starless night and every fragrance, every lingering sense of my husband is viped out from my body. With cinnamon, cheap beer, musky cologne, genital fluids and snow…   
  
_What if I’d not left my drink unattended?_  
  
”Ned?”  
  
I’m still hard when I’m left by the road. They laughed at me. _You’ve not had enough, pretty boy?_ _Guess Billy’s not changed. Still disappointing… Or maybe he just doesn’t want to fuck you?_  
  
”Ned! We’re stopping here and you’re coming back to this room in 3… 2… 1… now.”  
  
Paws. Nose. Fur. And I’m crying, knees pressed to my chest again because I’m fucking falling apart. I can feel the heavy bounces on my hips, how my cock is used like a dead tool, squeezed inside that disgusting heat. I can feel the sharp pain when _he_ shoves his cock inside me, it’s like being stabbed over and over and it robbes me of air. I can’t scream, the shock and pain is too much and the only witness to it, is the wood. The darkness. The cold just waiting to take me out.  
  
”Ned!”  
  
I’m hearing Emily and I reckognize her, I’m partly back, but not completely and Maread is raising from my lap to lean her paws around me.   
  
_Paws. Nose. Fur. Breathe, Ned. Breathe._   
  
”Ned, you are no longer on that road. You’re in this room, I’m your psychologist Emily Hudson and you have your dog Mary Read with you. Whatever you say, feel or remember in this room, you are not on that road anymore. You are here, on my clinic for trauma patients and I’m guiding you through.”  
”I want Billy…”  
  
I want my husband, I’m crying for him like a lost child cries for his maw or da, but he’s not here.   
  
”Ned, your husband is not here right now, but your personal assistant is. Anne is waiting for you outside, would you like me to get her?”  
  
Anne. Anne isn’t Billy, but when he’s not around, she’s a rock. I nod, tears still streaming down my face.  
  
”Aye…”  
  
My PC assistant with the red hair and sour face. With the tiny, strong hands.  
  
”Hey, Ned. You alright?”  
”No… No, I’m not alright… I’m not… fucking alright…”  
  
Anne puts an arm around me and holds me close.  
  
”I’ll call’im, Ned, if you want to.”  
”He’s working, I don’t want… God, Anne… I’m such a fucking mess.”  
  
I’m given one of the pills Anne’s carrying with her in her bag and after sitting with the two women and my dog on the sofa, sobbing for another fifteen minutes, the panic dies. Billy isn’t here, but I’m calming down anyway. I’ve forced myself remembering more things from the night and the world didn’t end.   
  
Emily is still in the room and I’m crying in front of two women. And a dog. If I’d not bought that concert ticket, I would’ve been whole now.


	27. Billy (3rd person)

It’s always unnerving when Anne calls. Has something happened with Ned? Is he alright? Billy leaves the car he’s currently working on and answers.  
  
”Anne?”  
”Hi, Billy.”  
”Is everything alright? He’s had an attack? Did he hurt himself?”  
  
He’s blabbering and Anne cuts off.  
  
”Nothing bad has happened, Billy, but Ned’s really upset. Breakthrough in therapy.”  
”How’s him getting upset a breakthrough?! Where are you?”  
”We’re at Hudson and Ned wont stop crying.”  
”He’s panicking?”  
”No, just crying. Really sad. He needs you.”  
  
He shouldn’t be surprised. Not long ago, Ned cried if Billy left his sight and even with Anne and Mary Read as support, Billy’s not felt relaxed at work since he got back.  
  
”Can he talk on the phone?”  
”Yeah, I’ll hand it over. Just a sec.”  
”Thanks.”  
  
Some of his collegues are looking, some of them with suspicion, when Billy leaves the garage and goes outside. Since coming back fulltime again, this happens every day and noone but Billy’s boss knows why. There are rumors, of course, about weak gays and snowflake husbands. Billy is muscled, works with cars and plays football. He’s having beers with the guys and no one has seen him in make-up, pink or heard him talk about Eurovision, theatre or Pride parades. Naturally, some collegues with prejudices, are convinced his far smaller, longhaired, theatre loving husband who’s home sick, must be a pussy and Blly is the manly man who gives in for ”the wifie’s fancies and emotions.   
  
Usually, Billy couldn’t care less of what they’re thinking and he leans at the wall on the backside of the shop.  
  
”Babe?”  
”Billy? Sorry for calling at work.”  
  
Ned is crying and Billy forgets his entire surroundings, the one and only thing existing being his husband.  
  
”Don’t appologies, love. You should always call when you need to. Alright? _Always_. What’s happened?”   
”I… I remember more. And I don’t want to.”  
  
The truth always seems more horrifying when it’s described this simple. _I remember more and I don’t want to._ Eight words. Eight more bites. Eight new wounds. Billy swallows.  
  
”Ned, sweetheart, listen to me. You come by work right away.”  
”But…”  
”I’m working, yes, but I can still give my husband a hug.”  
  
Calm. If Billy sounds calm, Ned will be calm. Or, at least calmer. Ten minutes later, Anne Bonny’s car parks outside the workshop and Billy hurries out, showing very little calm. Ned is in the backseat with Maread, pale and exhausted. Billy opens the door and the next second, he’s got one piece of absolutely fed up husband in his arms.  
  
Billy just holds him, feeling the heavy head against his chest. How a body still as thin as Ned’s could feel so heavy is a mystery and he sighs.  
  
”I’m so tired, Billy… So fucking _tired_.”  
  
It’s another word for sad. Billy can feel it. It’s been more than three months and Ned’s body and mind have been on a sick, awful rollercoaster ride the entire time. Gaining weight has proven to be much harder than loosing it and the lack of energy has thrown him into a vicious circle that’s hard to get out of. The amount of energy the therapy and the memories it stirs up costs him is frightening. Billy kisses his hair.  
  
”You know how proud I am, right? You’re my hero, Ned.”  
  
Ned lets out a teary laughter.  
  
”I’m not in the mood for jokes, muppet.”  
”I’m not joking. You’re forcing yourself through something I can’t even imagine. Don’t you think I see how much you struggle every day? I know you don’t feel strong, but you are and… and I’m so _damn fucking proud_ of you for not giving up. That makes you my hero.”  
  
Billy’s whispering, lips buried in his husband’s hair and he’s almost lifting him from the ground in his strong, burly arms.  
  
”You’re gonna get through this, hon, and I’m always beside you. And behind you. I’m off in a couple of hours. You’ll be alright until then? With Anne and Maread?”  
”Yeah.”  
”We’ll get through this. We’ll get through.”  
  
He says it like a mantra, but he believes it. He must. If he doesn’t, what’s there to fight for?


	28. Ned (3rd person)

One tiny dose. One unattended moment. Half a beer. How many sips is that? Gulps? A few steps. Friends momentarily out of sight. More steps. Fresh air? Of course. Walk around a little usually does the trick. The tall, smiling man. _Do I know ye from somewhere? Ye seem… familiar…_ Charming. Blue eyes. _Woah! Steady on, pal! Come on, lets sit down.  
_  
Arm around shoulders. How many steps with suddenly very heavy feet? The car wasn’t parked very far from the bar. He could hear the noise from the bar. He still does. Music, chatter, sound of glasses and laughters. Smell from beer, cigarette smoke, sweaty people and perfume. And the smiling man and his friends. They were funny, laughed a lot, at Ned’s bad jokes and he’s relaxed. He’d lost Ben and Jacob somewhere in the crowd and he needs both air and a smoke.  
  
He’s done this a thousand times. Standing outside a bar, more or less drunk, smoking and talking nonsens with strangers. He’s a social, easygoing guy, people usually like him. _Easy there, pal! I know where you can sit down._  
  
Since when did he get so tired from some beers? He was a bit drunk, yes, but then he felt numb. Legs strangely heavy and soft. Eyelids like lead. _I… I should go home. Billy probably wonders…_ _Let him wonder, Ned.  
  
_ He wakes up screaming. Bed soaked and his mind shattered. Mary Read brings him out of the nightmare as Billy runs inside and that’s their saving grace. It stops Ned’s mind just on the doorstep on believing Billy is someone else. Not just someone, but Woodes Rogers, Alice Risden and Charlotte Slevin. He’s torn from his sleep, attacked again and on that doorstep, a part of Ned realises he almost confused Billy for his attackers. He’s not been aware of that earlier, not during an actual panic attack or nightmare, and the shame and disgust concumes him.  
  
”I’m sorry, I’m sorry… Oh God, Billy, I’m so sorry…”  
  
Billy shushes him, holds his soaked, shivering body close and steady.  
  
”It was just a nightmare, love. Your mind is playing tricks on you. It’s not your fault and there’s nothing to be afraid of now.”  
”I… I though ye were…”  
”I know, babe. But you were asleep, you weren’t awake. You know, when I first moved to Hal, I had a lot of nightmares. You remember I told you that?”  
”Aye.”  
”It happened that I didn’t reckognize him at first, before I was properly awake. I only saw my previous foster dad, my foster siblings and the bigger boys at the orphanage. Once, I even hit him on the nose, gave him nosebleed.”  
”Ye did?”  
”Yeah… When I was awake I was absolutely certain he’d beat the crap out of me, but he just praised my right fist, saying that for being so scrawny, I was quite strong.”  
  
Billy smiles and it makes Ned laugh. He hides his face against Billy’s chest.  
  
”Sometimes I forget how much shite ye went through… To me, I mean, ye’ve always been me walking six-pack hunk with arms of the size of me thighs. Just invincible…”   
”Does it bother you? I mean, our size difference?”  
  
Ned shrugs.  
  
”T’is not like in the beginning, ye know. Back then it was… I just felt so out of yer league. And I know it’s silly to think like that but… I did.”  
”No more silly than complaining for getting peoples attention, I guess. But what’s the difference now?”  
”T’is not the size difference in itself and ye know that. I love the way ye look, I just feel so damn weak and then I see ye and…”  
”Yeah, I think I understand. The contrast is too much.”  
”Aye… Even with the meds, I can’t fucking relax and if I can’t relax, I get more tense and then it hurts moving and I get scared it will hurt more…”  
”It’s a vicious circle.”  
”I used to do bloody cartwheels…”  
”You will do them again one day, I’m sure of it.”  
”How can ye be sure?”  
”Because you’re broken, not destroyed, and I can already see a difference. You’re a little heavier to carry now, compared to some weeks ago. Your grip is stronger, your skin is not as dry as before and your nails and hair look way better.”  
  
Billy combs through the sweaty hair with his hand and smiles.  
  
”Well… now it’s a bit soaked, but it’s a real difference, I’ll tell you. It was all brittled and your scalp was dry. Your pillowcase looked like you’d snorted coke. It’s not some schampoo magic, because it’s the same you always use, so I’m pretty sure it’s the fact that you’re eating better.”  
”I wouldn’t dare to cheat with Anne watching over me.”  
  
They both laugh a little.  
__  
”Ye know the look she gets when she knows I want to just throw the damn food in the sink…”  
”The ’just try, I dare you’ look?”  
”Uh-huh. That’s the one…”  
”I know you hate being so watched all the time.”  
”Yeah, well…”  
  
Ned sighs.  
  
”I hate being unable to take care of meself, but I don’t hate you or Anne for helping me. T’is just… Don’t take this the wrong way, but I sometimes feel trapped. Watched. And then I get angry with meself ’cause I know this help I’m getting, is something most people in my situation couldn’t dream about.”  
”You feel guilty for not being… grateful?”  
”Something like that.”  
”And I feel worthless some days for not being able to take care of you myself. As you said, I’m pretty much a walking pack of muscles…”  
”Ah, yes, me six foot five alpha male… Working with cars, playing football…”  
”Going to the gym, working on our house…”  
”Carrying his little one-eyed husband on his shoulders.”  
  
The tone is teasing and makes them both smile again. Billy keeps petting the soaked hair.  
  
”Wasn’t it for you being strong, I wouldn’t have been here. You know how shy and awkward I felt when we met. God, I fell so hard for you and I was terrified you’d think I was too stupid and boring. I’d never dared to take that chance if you’d not guided me through. No muscles in the world could’ve helped me with that. And you were the first I could relax with. I mean, completely.”  
  
Old habits don’t die easily. Being on your guard, collecting food when you’re a small, scrawny boy. Binge eat and then cry, only with a six-pack instead of an empty stomach. Ned can feel the heart beat under his husband’s skin. Yes, Billy was scared when they met. More than Ned. Scared that Ned wouldn’t see past the frame. That he’d once again be seen as mostly a body. A pretty package, nothing more. But Ned’s one seeing eye catched other things. The intelligence, the kindness, the humour. They’re soulmates, lost without each other and that’s how it’s been from the beginning. Their hearts are safe with each other, no matter the shape of their bodies.  
  
The nightmare and the panic are gone. It’s almost morning and Ned shivers again. Billy rubs his back.  
  
”You need help to shower?”  
  
Ned moves his aching limbs.   
  
”I need help getting there, but then I manage.”  
”Then I make us some tea in the meantime.”  
  
Ned loves him for this. For not pitying him, for asking before taking over. For speaking to him like a normal, adult person despite the nightmares and the panic attacks. For reminding him that the life they have now, isn’t a fixed constant, no more than their past. And that’s why, when being carried to the bathroom, Ned doesn’t feel weak anymore, but rather on the lap of the waves, softly brought to safe shores again.


	29. Billy (1st person)

_Say I’m pretty and I’ll punch you._ Your weary eye speaks clear as I help you getting rid of the soaked clothes and swirl a towel around your tiny waist. Some people say there’s never wrong to tell your husband he’s pretty, but they’re obviously not married and has never witnessed a panic attack. I both love and respect you too much to pretend the damage this has done to your body, isn’t there.  
  
You’re unsteady, but can sit in our bathtub to shower. I place the things you need within reach and pull the drape to give you privacy. It’s an unspoken given that I don’t shut the door entirely when you’re this tired, even if Maread is laying by the laundry basket to watch over you. Privacy is one thing, stupidiy is another. You hate needing to be watched and helped, you don’t hate me for helping you. I knew that already, but it still felt good hearing it. I too need to be reminded you’re still my Ned.  
  
I change your bedsheets, open the window to get some fresh air inside and go downstairs to put a laundry on. It’s spring and I should get the garden work going soon. Another thing I know you’ll get angry about for reminding you how it used to be. Since you’re still so tense, walking – and especially running – is out of the question, not to mention acrobatics. Swimming would be ideal, but considering how uncomfortable you are with even showing yourself in shortsleeves now, that’s not an option either. And you’re too tense to manage more than a few minutes grass cutting, which rules out garden work. Sucks, but this is our reality at the moment.   
  
When I’m done making the bed, I knock at the bathroom door. You’re smiling when I enter.  
  
”Put the plug in. Damn, this feels good…”  
  
I actually don’t want you to bathe, since I’m worried you’ll get too tired and then get a panic attack for not being able to get up. But of course – fuck, I feel stupid – of course a warm bath is good for your poor muscles. The towel provides enough privacy to make you comfortable with me seeing you and the presense of Maread is the security you need without being watched.   
  
”I only miss one thing…”  
”What?”  
”A beer.”  
  
You’re smiling, rosy from the heat and with foam covering you. I blow some in your face.  
  
”I don’t recall us having bubbles at home.”  
”That’s ’cause I’m the only one using’em.”  
”Looks like you needed this.”  
”Hurts less. And I’m sick of freezing. And stinking from sweat all the fucking time. Speaking of time, when’s Anne coming?”  
”In about an hour, so you can take your time.”  
”Fuck… I woke ye up early…”  
  
I kiss your forehead.  
  
”It’s Friday, hon. I get to sleep tomorrow.”  
”Yeah… ’bout that…”  
”What?”  
”Ye need a day off. From this.”  
”You’re not a work task.”  
  
I almost get upset but you hush me with a foamy hand.  
  
”Listen to me, muppet. Ye need a day off. Work, football and workout aint a day off. I… I want ye to get out of the house for a whole day and just do things ye want to do. When was the last time ye had a beer with the feens, huh?”  
”Does pizza with Chaz after practice counts?”  
”Ye had a beer?”  
”Uhm… Nope.”  
”Then it was too fucking long ago.”  
”I don’t want to leave you alone that long. Not when I’ve been working all week. And Anne doesn’t work weekends.”  
”What if we ask Idelle or Ben to babysit?”  
”Hey…”  
”Just kidding, but seriously. I’ve not seen _my_ friends for fucking ages either. Please, babe, at least we could ask. If I have a couple of friends here and we all stay sober, surely ye could get out playing drunken football and force John to stay goalie.”  
  
We both laugh. John’s version of staying goalie, is to move around like a broken windmill and squeak everytime the ball comes too close to his face. Drunken football with John is pure beauty. You squeeze my hand.  
  
”Please, _please_ , hon…  We both need it and ye know it.”  
  
We do. Hell fucking yes, I do. You’re seeing I’m almost convinced and you make your ”begging damsel in distress”-face, that’s really unfair because it’s hilarious.  
  
”Please, good sir, me big, strong alpha male needs to stretch his legs, ye see. Can’t have’im indoors all the time or he’ll get all gone in the head, I’ll tell ye. Like I said to me ole gal’s the other day: ye gotta let yer fella run off some steam every now and then…”  
  
It’s like hearing you reherse one of your roles. I live for these slivers of normality. And I also hear the plead behind the joke. I have to let go a little and I plant a kiss on your hair.  
  
”I’ll make some calls later, okay?”  
”Good.”  
”You’re done bathing?”  
”Honestly, I could lay here all day, but aye, I’m done. Please, help this wreck up.”  
  
I want to say you’re not a wreck, but instead I say it to myself, quietly. I don’t want to ruin the morning by pulling you into the unnecessary argument I know it will end up in. You’ve had a bath, for fucks sake. In the life that’s ours, that’s now a fucking progress worth celebrating.


	30. Ned (1st person)

”Who wants pineapple?”  
  
Idelle holds up the fruit like it’s a weapon and the two vegans raise their hands. Max hands her a knife.   
  
”Thick slices, hon.”  
  
I’ve not had fresh pinapple since forever. Or my friends over. Billy is away as requested and I’m sitting on our kitchen couch, petting Maread as Max hands out tasks, directing us like we’re on the theatre. Ben and Jacob brought vegan ice cream and are arguing with Idelle about Equilibrium’s latest album. Jacob looks almost offended.  
  
”It’s epic! I don’t understand how you can’t like it.”  
”Because it sounds like Finntroll married Sabaton and an Irish folkband and got a German love child on crack.”  
  
Max chuckles at her girlfriend. She’s the odd woman out this evening, surrounded with four metalheads and no Billy or John to save her.  
  
”At least put on something where you can hear the actual lyrics.”  
”Hear or understand?”  
  
Max just rolls her eyes and Idelle gives her a beer tasting kiss before burying her girlfriend’s face between her breasts. Ben grins.  
  
”I’m so gay I shit rainbows but those tits…”  
  
Idelle, used to her friends admiring her impressive breasts, just strokes Max’s hair with a pleased smile, reminding very much of a cat. They act as usual with me and why shouldn’t they? They’re all actors on some level and good at it. I raise from the table.  
  
”I’m getting me laptop. Want to judge that album meself.”  
  
Maread follows me like a shadow upstairs. It’s been three days since the fit, three calm, if also extremely tired days. Basically I’ve just moved between different places to lay or sit on, so I have to walk pretty slowly now. I don’t want to fall. The sun is shining through the skylight at the floor in the hallway. Slightly dusty floorplanks, we put them in last summer and I get tears in my eyes, the seeing one and the blind one.   
  
I sink down on the rag rug in blue, green and white. Can’t keep on crying like this, it steals my time and energy. It brings me back to the night, the road and the car. The forrest. Maread puts her paws on my shoulders and the image fades enough to not take my mind on a nightmare run. For once, it just lets me cry when I’m alone. I don’t get the pressure on my chest, or the pain in my stomach. Maread looks at me like ”go on, have a good cry, I’ll keep you in reality”. I’m sitting on the floor with my dog, just bawling.  
  
”Ned?”  
  
Max’s perfume is more noticable than her footsteps. She doesn’t intrude, I didn’t even hear her coming.  
  
”Are you alright, darling?”  
”Yeah…”  
”You want to be alone?”  
  
I nod.  
  
”I’m fine, I just… need a moment.”  
  
I’m not good at explaining myself in a moment like this, but Max understands. I’m not having a panic attack and Maread is completely calm. Max strokes my hair.  
  
”You get downstairs whenever your’re ready, love.”  
  
She doesn’t sound worried, doesn’t ask if I need meds or for Billy to come home. When she walks downstairs, I’m not left with the feeling that I’m a complete wreck. I still cry, but I can handle it on my own. Need to be on my own, with the part of my brain that’s just so damn sad. Every step into normality, the thing I long for, is at the same time a moment of comparison. Everything I do, think and feel has a before and after.  
  
I was left to die there. Maybe it wasn’t intentional, maybe it was. I’m in constant agony over my own actions that night and all the _what if:s_ my mind repeats to itself. Did any of my rapists care if I lived or died on that road? Or were they simply just done with me and didn’t think any further? I don’t even know what feels worse. The thought that they meant it for me not to make it through the night, or the thought that they didn’t even care. Was I that disposable to them? That far from a human being. Did Woodes only thought he got back on Billy, that I was just a thing belonging to my husband with no feelings of my own? Did they want me to feel pain and fear or were they just… enjoying themselves?  
  
It wasn’t over quickly either, they took their time. I couldn’t move, only feel. Never in my whole life have I felt that helpless, that scared. I lost so much that night and I want to know why. And I want to stop crying. Start living, not only be alive.  
  
Soft, short fur. Maread. What would I do without her? Probably not be here. God, I long for Billy now. Have been without him for a couple of hours and I already long for him. I’m not used to be without him at this hour, but I can do it. I must. My friends are here, my furry guardian calms me. I wont get a panic attack, I know I’m safe. Just have to breathe, stay in the now. I’m raising from the rug, walking the short steps into my room and getting my laptop.   
  
I want my husband. Want him to come home now, more than anything, so I can lay in his arms and hide from myself. Instead I walk downstairs, grateful I’ve cried without having a panic attack. Counting my blessings, trying not to get bitter. The night still seems so everlasting and forever dark.


	31. Billy (3rd person)

It’s been almost three hours and Billy can’t stop checking his phone. He has barely touched his beer. It’s Saturday and the whole surroundings screams of normality. Beers with friends. It’s not as if he and Ned never go out separately. They are pretty careful with seeing friends and doing stuff each one on their own, it’s one of the things that makes them fit so well together. They don’t have to be physically close to feel close and couples supervising each other is fucking pathetic.  
  
”He’s fine.”  
  
Billy turns around, seeing James’ calm face and he puts his phone down. James pats his shoulder and then ducks from a misplaced shot from his tipsy, curly husband.   
  
”Sorry, love! I was aiming for Billy!”  
  
John playing football drunk is a work of art. He is absolutely terrible with the ball, but has better balance than anyone, even drunk. A combination that should be evaluated by scientists, as James puts it. Billy kicks the ball back, the poodle manage to head it to Eleanor, who practically nails it in the left corner, just over Charles’ surprised head.  
  
”Scoooore! Who-hoo!”  
  
Elle makes her drunken victory dance in the spring night. The sun is about to lower and everything is just fine and normal. What if Ned has a panic attack right now? What if he doesn’t reckognize his friends? Billy’s next shot is way harder than he anticipated, stretching out the net in full. His friends are watching him, checking him out and suddenly, Billy understands better why Ned wanted him out of the house. His husband is a social guy, but he needs his space and hasn’t been home alone for months now. Not that he’s alone now – God forbid – but at least he’s not feeling supervised. But at the same time, he wants to get home.  
  
He takes his phone up and calls Ned, who sounds tired.  
  
”Hey, muppet.”  
”Hi, hon. How are you?”  
”Ye’re worried?”  
”A little, I admit.”  
”I’m fine, Billy.”  
”You’ve cried.”  
  
Ned laughs.  
  
”How come ye can always tell… Jesus… Don’t worry, love, okay? Didn’t panic or anything, just bawled. Had furry company, ye know, and Max checked on me.”  
”You want me to come home?”  
”A bit early, isn’t it? Ye don’t even sound plastered yet.”  
”John and Elle are drunk enough for all of us. Impressively, they’ve not hit James or Chaz yet.”  
”Then they’re clearly not plastered enough.”  
  
Billy swallows. It’s really nice being out with friends and hearing Ned sounding almost like his old self, only more tired, is calming. But still…  
  
”Sorry for being a total sap, but I miss you already, babe.”  
  
It’s not just worry. He really does miss him. This is still not normal, it’s a bit staged and they all know it. It’s as if they’re practising on being away from each other. A part of Billy wants to get back home immediately, but this is not an emergency and they shouldn’t treat it like that.  
  
”I’ll be home by ten, okay?”  
  
Ten is at least two hours earlier than Ned thought he would handle, and he sighs. Billy calms him.  
  
”It’s not a defeat, hon. Can’t always work perfect at the first try. Actually, I think I’m handling this worse than you.”  
”Well, then I guess ye should stay out a bit longer.”  
”As a punishment?”  
  
They both laugh and Billy can feel some of the tension leaving him. But he meant it, he’s missing Ned.   
  
”How about we make a fire and tea when I get back?”  
”Sounds very nice to me.”  
  
When they hang up, Billy feels better. However slow, however frustrating, things _are_ getting better. You only have to remember counting the hours, not the days or weeks. Comparing enough to still know what you’re aiming for, but not so much the picture of normality swallows you. This isn’t normal, this is a small step towards normality and that should be counted and seen as the victory it is. But winning a battle is not winning a war and Billy still feels like he’s walking on a mental minefield. Sometimes following, sometimes leading and sometimes chasing after his husband. And sometimes he must carry him.


	32. Ned (3rd person)

As with Maread and Mrs. Hudson, he’s both afraid it wont work and pissed off that it does. The only thing the punchbag isn’t attacked with, are items. Ned’s feet and hands are all over the poor thing hanging from his roof this morning and he doesn’t even notice he’s exhausted. He’s too angry.  
  
Last night went fine – or as fine as one could hope – and he had a cuddle with Billy by the fire. No big panic attacks, no more tears and no nightmares. And for every piece of normality added to their life, Ned only gets angrier. The feelings are extremely mixed as he keeps punching and kicking the bag. It’s anger, yes, but also frustration, hate, fear and a lot of sorrow. And the last one is something Ned is extremely tired of. Tears may be better than shutting off, but it’s so fucking tiresome and drains him of energy.  
  
”Fuck!”  
  
He kicks the damn bag again and again, not seeing any faces or reliving any memories. He just wants to hurt something. Needs to. He’s been taken care of for so long now and you can’t hurt people who helps you, just because the people you really want to hurt are out of reach.  
  
It only takes a few minutes before he’s exhausted and falls down in a limp pile of sweaty, shaky flesh and bones. Maread immediately comes over and Ned leans over her, his now trembling arms around her warm body.  
  
”Good girl… Such a good girl, Maread…”  
  
Alone. He’s left alone. _Holy shite_. Ned looks up from the fur, realising Billy hasn’t come running, despite the door being open. When Billy came home last night, it didn’t take long before Ned fell asleep by the fire. He remembers asking for sleeping alone and Billy helping him to bed. And he didn’t have any nightmares, because he can’t remember waking up or sleeping lightly.  
  
Why this sudden anger? Is there even any point in asking? He wants to keep punching, but is too tired now. The relaxation hits his body so fast it’s his saving grace he’s already sitting down. And then he notices it. He’s hard.  
  
Before Maread, he would’ve clawed it, but if he hurts himself now, she will wake up Billy and there will be no more clawing and also a very bad start of the day. Ned looks down and sighs. His cock is a fucking traitor. He shoves his hand down his pajama pants and boxers, just holding the damn thing. He’s always touching it as little as possible these days and hurries with washing, as if it’s contagious. The last time he actually touched it for more than a few seconds, he tried to hurt himself.  
  
It’s just a piece of flesh. A part of himself that’s always been there. There are no markings on the skin, reminding of the trauma. He takes a deep breath, trying to repeat Emily Hudson’s words in his head.  
  
_It wasn’t my fault. I didn’t want it, I didn’t deserve it. It’s common for men to get erections when being raped by a woman, it’s a biological function we can’t control. I’m not the only one and it wasn’t my fault. Getting an erection doesn’t mean consent. Getting an erection doesn’t mean consent. Getting an erection doesn’t mean fucking consent.  
_  
And even if he’d been as limp as a boned fish, there’s still the other part and the flashbacks are merciless. Blunt fingers and saliva. GHB and alcohol dissolving reality and turning muscles into goo, unfortunately not shutting down the stabbing pain.  
  
_They laughed at me. They bent and turned me like I was a doll. They rode me and pressed my face between one of the women’s breast as he took me._ _And I was still hard.  
  
_ Paws. Nose. Fur. _Don’t hurt yourself, Ned. It’s just a fucking boner and nothing will happen. Nothing will happen, it’s perfectly safe._  
  
”Ned? Can you here me, babe? Oh, God…”  
  
Hands. Blood. Is it his own? The memory fades and Ned is slowly driven back to reality, only to be hit by pain. He’s clawed himself and not a little. His cock and balls are smeared with blood, so are his clothes and Billy has stains on his hands. Ned whimpers, the sensitive skin is damaged and Billy is holding his wrists, preventing further harm.  
  
”Ned, do you reckognize me? It’s Billy, your husband. You’re at home and no one can harm you here. Can you feel Maread? Your dog.”  
  
Paws. Nose. Fur on legs. Warm hands. Blood. _God, it burns._  
  
”Easy now… I know, I know, it hurts, but hold onto me, Ned. Just hold onto me, babe. No-no-no, don’t claw yourself! It’s your body, sweetheart, your own, beautiful body and I can’t let you hurt it like this.”  
”Shut up! For fucks sake, man, just _shut up_! Get out of me _fucking head_!”  
  
Paws. Nose. Fur. Arms in the way of his own, hands around his head. A warm chest against his face. A beating heart.  
  
”What’s happened?”  
”Anne, thank God… Could you get me his medicine?”  
  
Paws. Nose. Fur. Billy and Anne. Pills, water cup. _Swallow, Ned. Just swallow and it will over. Soon, if you only swallow._  
  
Magic, white little wonders. Golden-white fur. A sheet around his body.  
  
”Take your pants off, hon. You’re covered, don’t worry.”  
  
Covered? The air hurts as he breathes deep and too sharp. Ned’s not covered. He’s completely exposed, invaded and broken under the sheet hiding his nudity. Billy holds him tight, rocking him on the floor.  
  
”Just a few more minutes, Ned. Then you’ll feel better, I promise.”  
  
Paws. Nose. Fur. Billy’s arms around him, his calm voice shushing the turmoil. A small, strong hand holding his own. Anne Bonny’s red hair hanging long and loose next to goldenwhite fur.  
  
”You’re not alone, Ned. We’re dealing with this together, alright? Aint gonna win.”  
  
The panic stands no chance against Billy, Maread, Anne and the little white wonders. Ned feels exhaustion replace the anger, the tension bleeding away and he turns to goo but the fear is gone. Now there’s only pain and the so familiar sense of defeat left.


	33. Billy (1st person)

”Forgot you were working today.”  
”Good thing I didn’t forget about it.”  
”Yeah…”  
  
I’ve had a shower, removing the last visible stains from this mornings horror and Anne has unbidded made a pot of coffee we both really need now. I’m having a bowl of cereals, even though I’m not hungry at all. Ned finally sleeps and his PC assistent looks just as calm and sour as usual by the table and I sigh.  
  
”Does nothing of this scare you?”  
”No.”  
  
She takes a sip of her coffee.  
  
”I’ve made a choise working with Ned, I get to come home to my partners and four cats and leave work behind until next day. It’s Ned, and you, who’re living with this, not me. And not to belittle your situation, but I’ve seen worse. Not that it helps you.”  
”I think it does. I couldn’t do this without someone who can stay this calm.”  
”Well, that’s one of the biggest problems with panic disorders. It’s not easy to stay calm yourself when your partner’s clearly panicking and hurting himself. And that’s of course when the best thing is to stay calm. Irony is truly a bitch sometimes.”  
  
I swallow.  
  
”You think he’ll ever get better?”  
  
Anne raises her eyebrows, clearly surprised by the question and she puts down her cup.  
  
”He _is_ getting better right now, Billy.”  
”He made himself bleed. How’s that _better_?”  
”I don’t mean the scratching. I mean the fact that he actually reckognized me in the midst of a waking nightmare. The last time he had an attack like this and I was around, he tried to bite me ’cause he didn’t reckognize me and it took at least ten minutes before he did. This morning, when I came upstairs and he saw me, he knew it was me. What could’ve taken between five and twenty minutes, took ten seconds this time. And I wasn’t even here when the attack started.”  
  
I’ve not thought about it that way. The scratching looked worse than it was because of the smeared blood and he didn’t keep scratching once he came back to reality. I smile at my husband’s short and thin PC assistant. She’s the same height as he.  
  
”He’s trusting you.”  
”At least enough to let me help him.”  
”I know I shouldn’t snoop but…”  
”How’s he doing when you’re not around?”  
  
She smiles and I shrug.  
  
”He’s my husband so it’s a bit hard to know where you draw the line of professional secrecy.”  
”I’m not his doctor or pshychologist and I’m working in your home with your husband who’s care you’re directly involved with, so unless there is something Ned tells me not to share with you or things that clearly are just his business, it’s more about common sense.”  
  
She takes another sip of her coffee.  
  
”Ned is improving. A lot. He’s not hurting himself deliberately anymore, he almost never feels sick while eating.”  
”And he’s always pissed…”  
”Making good use of that punching bag. They basically stole his life from him. Of course he’s pissed.”  
”Is he… talking to you?”  
  
Anne smiles again and I feel like I’m trying to get around the professional silence.   
  
”Sorry. I know I shouldn’t snoop.”  
”Perfectly normal, you know. What I can say, is that from where I stand, he’s improved a lot since we started working together. I know it must seem slow and very frustrating, but it’s not bad for someone who’s gone through something like this, to not fall deeper than this into self-destruction. There are those who starts doing drugs, putting themselves in danger and harm themselves repeatedly. Those times Ned has done harm to himself, he’s had a nightmare or a flashback, and been partly unaware of what he’s doing.”  
”And that’s somehow… better?”  
”In one way, yes. Because that shows he’s not suicidal or self-destructive. He’s always trying his best with eating and exercise. He doesn’t misuse or skip his meds, he shows up on every appointment with his psychologist. And he’s taking care of Mary Read, he’s not stopped caring about hygene or stuff like that. He gets frustrated, angry, sad and panicked but he’s clearly improving. Only it doesn’t feel like it.”  
  
It doesn’t, no. But she’s right and I feel less alone, less weak. Maread comes trotting into the kitchen and I rise from my seat. Sleeping Beauty is awake and if I’m correct, he’s not feeling very beautiful at all. I don’t wish this upon anyone, to see your heart this torned by nightmares, fear, pain and self-hatred. All I want is for him to smile again. Is that too much to ask?


	34. Ned (1st person)

It takes everything I have not to claw and scratch. To not go down the foreverdark woods trail. Maread is laying across me, her paws covering my hands and her dark eyes looking at me as if saying: ”Trust me, human, I know what’s best for you. Fur, soft fur, you know. That’s what you need.” I let my hands rest, the impulse dying away.   
  
I’m in constant fear of upsetting myself or others. Everytime Billy looks at me with that pain and worry written all over him, I feel like I’m failing. Destroying. And then, when that fear has taken hold, my mind starts wandering off, taking turns I don’t want to and the fear is back. It hits me like a punch in my guts, ripping the air from my lungs and talking about it, saying the names of my nightmares, is like giving them life again. They’ve already taken months of my life and I don’t know who I am anymore. I want nothing more than to leave that road and never look back, but everytime I have a moment of peace, I’m always aware of that the moment will past and then I’m back in the darkness again.  
  
The guilt, the self-accusations are always there, if I’m not careful. I try to use the tools Emily has given me, the strategies to keep those thoughts abay, but they’re still very much alive. And I feel so completely useless, so weak and at the same time angry. I’m angry all the time, even if I’m not really thinking about them.   
  
Men can’t get raped. Especially not by women. Men are strong, men fight back and give bastards what they deserve. I can’t ever remember my da or any other grown-up man in my childhood, feeling sorry for other men getting beat up. Da hasn’t even called and asked how I’m doing. Not my brother either, or my youngest sister. I know they all know that something has happened, but apart from maw and Fiona, my family is dead silent. I rarely speak with maw or my eldest sister either, it’s mostly texts because I just don’t know what to say anymore. I can’t calm them when I feel like I’m constantly trying to make myself not falling apart. I take one small step ahead and then I’m thrown two steps back again. The weariness I feel is so consuming, it’s hard to find proper words. And when I do, speaking them is like lifting heavy stones. One for every damn word.  
  
I’m completely exhausted, maybe that’s what’s stopping me from doing myself more harm now. I’m laying in my bed, with my goldenwhite dog over me. My four-legged link to sanity and I’m crying silently in her fur. Why wont this nightmare ever leave? What have I done to deserve this? Why can’t I rise up and move on? Am I so weak this will destroy me?  
  
”Ned?”  
  
I lift my head. Anne and her non-existing smile. I’m always grateful for her lack of smiles. She squats by the bed and strokes my hair. She usually doesn’t touch me unless it’s absolutely necessairy, but I don’t mind the small hand on my head. Her eyes are calm, not pitying or worried.  
  
”You got some sleep?”  
”Aye…”   
  
She hands me a tissue and that sets the tears off again. For the first time I lean into her shoulder and allow her to comfort me.  
  
”I’ll never get through this, Anne…”  
”You don’t know that and I don’t believe that. No fucking way you’re not gonna win over this shit, Ned. That’s just not an option. I know it goes fucking slow, that it aint good or fair in any way, but you’re not gonna let this shit win. What happened wasn’t your fault.”  
”How do ye know?”  
  
I sound bitter. And angry. But what’s new with that? I’m always angry these days. Anne has an arm around my back and I’m sobbing pathetically against her shoulder.   
  
”I’m _so fucking tired_ of this shit… I… _Fuck!_ ”  
  
Seems as if I can’t manage anything but crying. Or clutching and panicking. Guess crying is to prefer, but it’s so damn exhausting. Anne strokes my shoulder.  
  
”Maybe you need to talk someone who knows.”  
”Fucking everyone knows!”  
”Didn’t mean it like that.”  
  
She hands me another tissue.  
  
”Don’t mean me or Billy or your therapist. I mean like… somone who knows what you’re going through.”  
”Like… other ace men or what?”  
”No, I mean anyone. Men, women, gay, straight, ace… other rape victims whatever the sex or orientation. A support group, maybe. There are a lot of’em online.”  
”You’ve checked?”  
”Course I have.”  
  
I recall Emily Hudson mention support groups, but not when or what her advice was. Anne scratches Maread behind her ear.  
  
”There’s this site, survivorsuk.org who helps men. They have telephone and online support and also group and individual therapy. You’re seeing Emily, but seeing other survivors… Maybe that’s worth a try?”  
”You contacted them?”  
”No, I looked’em up. Haven’t talked to anyone, Ned, I have professional secrecy and even if I hadn’t, I damn well wouldn’t go gossiping ’bout you to others. This… you feeling like you’re all alone with this, aint good. And with an oline support, you don’t even have to leave the house or see strange people if you don’t want to.”  
  
I don’t. Don’t want any of this. I want to forget. I want to go back to sleep and pretend I’ll wake up next to Billy, without nightmares, meds, medical staff, still seventeen pounds underweight and a watch dog. I want to kill. To wipe out the faces, the hands from my memory, from Billy’s, but what I’ve done this far hasn’t helped me with that and somewhere, in some way, I know it. I want to forget, but more than that I want my life back and no matter how much I wish Billy, Anne and Emily to be wrong about this, I know they aren’t. The evidences are too clear, too obvious to ignore. The more I talk about it, the more I end up crying and screaming. But to be silent, to try and pretend the words already spoken haven’t been said at all, is not an option anymore. It’s too late for that.  
  
I wipe my face again. The tissue is just a wet piece of paper crumbles now. Useless.  
  
”Do it. If ye think it’s… Contact’em, Anne, please. But don’t tell Billy.”  
”Wouldn’t dream of it.”  
”I want to… if I’m to do this, I want to do it meself.”  
”Ned…”  
”What?”  
  
I’ve stopped crying now and feel much calmer. Anne keeps scratching a certain good dog, who butts her head against me.   
  
”I’m not his assistent, I’m yours. And it’s your life, remember?”  
  
No, it’s not. But maybe it can be again.


	35. Billy (3rd person)

He’s cleaning. Ned will be irritated for being left out, but for once Billy doesn’t care. Ned’s been a pile of nerve ends since the last attack, but Anne is doing a fucking brilliant job right now upstairs, so there’s no need to intervene and he’s still off from work.  
  
Billy’s vaccuming, opening windows to air out, hanging the few rag carpets on the balcony downstairs and does laundry. It feels good. Satisfying. They’ve not had their usual allround cleaning this spring and to be honest, the daily cleaning has fallen behind too. Usually, weirdly domestic as they are, they always do cleaning and laundry on Saturdays, go through their stuff once a month – they’ve both lived in houses with large and small families before and know how easily things pile up when you don’t think about it. Everything they know they wont use but are still functioning, goes to charity. It’s not even been a discussion about it, it’s just one of all their seamless connection of thoughts.  
  
This time, Billy only goes through his own. Wornout shoes, knicknacks he can’t remember how he got in the first place, clothes that can’t be fixed. He also goes through their common stuff, but instead of putting things in final piles, he marks a large paper box with a questionmark and put everything he’s not sure of in there. Ned’s stuff goes into another, for him to go through later, when he’s in the mood.  
  
Dusting, cleaning windows, changing curtains… It’s fucking spring now, even if it’s still quite cold some days, and Billy wants new colors. Some change. If Ned wants other curtains, then they’ll change that later. For now, Billy just needs to do something else than working or worrying.  
  
It’s sunny outside and for the first time this spring, Billy’s hanging their laundry outside to dry. It’s warm enough and there’s a small breeze skating through the wet sheets and shirts, smelling more like May than April. It’ll be four months soon. Could just as well have been years. Decades. Another life and yet still very much the same. In movies, they not only catch the bad guys and punish them. The victims almost always stand strong afterwards. Ready to fight back, to take revenge and give the bastards what they deserve. They never show how slow the time actually goes, Billy thinks as he hangs one of Ned’s too big t-shirts to dry. It’s a Moonsorrow logo on it and the fabric is bleached and soft from years of use.  
  
A memory stirs up and Billy recalls one particular day, some years back. _Sankaritarina_. On the lap of the waves. One morning in Ned’s narrow bed in his apartment, waking up to find Ned gone. But only to the balcony, swept in a blanket and smoking, while listening to Moonsorrow on a ridiculous volume.  
  
_Towards death we all are lead; the gods have chosen those to live. Our brother we lay on the lap of the waves; fare ye well, you stay in our hearts._  
  
He’d looked so peaceful, so happy. The smoke from his cigarette dancing and disappearing in the sunlight. The small smile on his lips, the closed eyes. Hands soft and strong, fingers unbroken around the fag. _Is something wrong, Ned?_ For sitting out here all alone, listening to this sad music… The smile growing, the hand on Billy’s cheek, the gaze showing nothing but happiness and peace. _I’d never listen to this if something was, muppet._  
  
One rarely hears music from Ned’s room anymore and Billy misses it. He misses knocking on the door and finding Ned consumed by the music. When the laundry basket is empty, Billy goes back inside and opens his laptop. Youtube quality may suck, but for some reason he needs to hear that song again. That one and others. Music connected with the man he fell so hard for, who’s still too scared and wounded, too angry and sad to find himself right now. Moonsorrow, Bathory, Darkthrone. Gehenna, Behemoth, Satyricon and Watain. Venom and Mayhem. This dark, depressing and aggressive bands are cornerstones in Ned’s sanity and happiness. When he’s not listening to this kind of music, Billy knows his husband’s not himself.  
  
_Blow Your Trumpets Gabriel_. It’s from Behemoth’s latest album. Ned must’ve heard it that night. It’s slow, grinding and growling. Then shifting in tempo, to a rapid, angry tone. Back to the softer darkness, but never leaving the sense of defiance, strenght and lowkey anger behind. This isn’t music despair, but resistance and force. And above all, it’s the music Ned listened to only hours before his life was smashed. Now, Billy’s mopping the kitchen floor to it.  
  
”Turn it off…”  
  
Ned’s in the doorway, not actually entering the kitchen. He looks stiff. Worried and angry. Maread stands close to him, sensing the vibes, and Anne is nowhere to be seen. The floor is wet and the whole kitchen smells with soap. Billy puts the mop away and looks right at his husband.  
  
”No.”  
  
He takes a deep breath.  
  
”This is my way of not... not fucking forget who you used to be, Ned. I miss that man, you know. I miss my husband, miss the way it was and even if some things have changed now, everything hasn’t. And I’m… I’m not giving away _every good memory_ of you, of _us_ , to those assholes. You can’t ask that of me. Some of my sweetest moments with you, are forever connected to your music, for fucks sake!”  
  
He’s angry. Determined. Ned looks like he’s about to have a panic attack, or throw a punch, or faint, or fucking everything and anything.  
  
_Blow your trumpets Gabriel! As I beheld the bewilderment ov Eden. Break the bread...and crumb by crumb into the Leviathan's den... Nations fall prey. Hail my return…_  
  
The memories flushing through his husband are almost visible to Billy now. The darkness, the heat inside the concert hall. Hundreds of human bodies bumping into each other. It was an amazing show, he said on phone. His ears ringing afterwards, deliciously. His muscles probably aching from two hours of just following that music. The way his body just melted into the sensations, got consumed by them as it always does when a show if fucking awesome. Bodily, internally. Mind reeling in the most splendid sense of power, animalistic rawness… _Hail my return…_  
  
Ned isn’t dwelling in any sensations of rawness, power or delicious consuming right now. He’s pale, scrawny and in more or less constant pain or tension. He’s been crying for weeks and in this moment, no one has ever been as sick of crying as he. His eyes aren’t wet. The seeing one is staring into Billy’s dark gaze and he’s slowly walking across the wet floor. Barefoot. _They took his shoes…_ Ned’s only 5’ 7, almost eleven inches shorter than himself, but now he looks like a giant. His breath tickles through Billy’s t-shirt.  
  
”Turn… it… off.”  
”No.”  
  
The smell from his hair is sweet appleblossom from the schampoo. It’s reaching below his shoulders now. Billy puts one hand on the back of Ned’s head, the other one over his scapulas. He’s resting leaning his mouth against his husband’s forehead.  
  
”I’m not gonna let them take any more of our life. I don’t know how, but in some fucking way, we’re gonna fix this. You and I, together. You have your boarders and I don’t want to cross them without permission, but I’m not gonna deny who you are, Ned. And neither Alice Risden or Charlotte Slevin or Woodes Rogers, is gonna take anything more from you, or us, than they already have.”  
  
The names. Ned’s breathing rapidly against Billy’s chest. Maread is sitting close to her daddy’s left leg. The sun is shining through the kitchen window, on the wet floor, the bucket with soaped water. The two men who’ve not yet moved. Behemoth keep singing their gospels through the laptop. The coffee brewer makes a small sound telling it’s done brewing, it’s homey scent entwining with the smell of soap and spring as the men hold onto each other.  
  
”Ye found out their…”  
  
Ned’s voice is thick and he can’t seem to finish the sentence. He keeps swallowing, keeps trying to digest the fact that the last part of his secret is dragged into the light. The two women, completing the nightmare. Ned feels his body go numb, held upright only by his husband’s broad, strong arms. One foot left in sanity, thanks to the dog by his left. Billy’s heart beating so calm. And angry. Ned stops trying to talk, stops fighting his husband, stops fighting himself, just stops.  
  
A new song is playing. Still Behemoth. _O Father O Satan O Sun!_ Another one Ned’s not heard since he, along with Ben and Jacob, rose his fist in the air in the crowd, singing along in the dark mass. _Akephalos, shine thru me. Come forth in war, come forth in peace. Bring down the sun, extinguish all the stars, let me remain in splendor ov thy light._ Billy holds him steadily, mouth buried in Ned’s hair. _Like a day without the dawn, like a ray void ov the sun. Like a storm that brings no calm, I'm most complete yet so undone…_  
  
Billy keeps holding him, not talking, just letting the music Ned loves, the music he’s not bared to hear since that night, wash over their silent embrace like a dark, soothing wave.  
  
_Agathos Daimon, ov plague and fever, thy name is nowhere, thy name is never. Liberate me, ignite the seeds. Bind not to guilt, Ignis Gehennalis… O Father, O Satan, O Sun, let the children come to thee, behold the morning star. Akephalos, shine thru me. Come forth in war, come forth in peace._  
  
The night Ned’s not been able to leave behind, that seems so everlasting and forever dark, began with this. The darkness he loves, the one that’s not frightening, but comforting and powerful. The man he loves is holding him, longing with his whole being, to have his husband back. And Ned doesn’t know how, but just a little of that frozen, paralysing terror connected with the last memories he has of this music, melts enough to give room for the warm blood flowing free again. Not in agonizing fear or boiling anger, but just a stream of calm, neutral, unjudged life finally getting through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here ends part three of "Down Foreverdark Woods Trail" - title from Bathory's "Foreverdark Woods" and the fourth part will be a continue on the same story. I've chosen to divide the story into pieces of 35 chapters and the next part is called "Embrace The Darkest Night, Save Me From The Light".
> 
> This is one of the longest stories I've ever written and it's SO HARD to reach through with a crack pairing, so to all of you who're following this series, people bookmarking and subscribing: THANK YOU for giving this story a go. If you like this story, please let me know. Comments are most welcome and I hope you'll follow me to the fourth part which I intend to be more energetic.


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